Blood Circles: The SF Vampire
by zenfrodo
Summary: '70s show! The aftermath of New Orleans: Joe Hardy, crippled; the Hardy family broken into a harsh circle of accusation & Frank bears the brunt. Hoping to find healing, Frank & Joe become targets of hostility & suspicion as they hunt a terrifying cult preying on children - & uncover a secret that threatens to not only shatter their sanity, but their very bond as brothers...
1. Prologue

_It's been too long; health & financial issues nailed my creativity, writing, & posting of this originally, and it wasn't until NaNoWriMo 2014 that I was able to struggle back. So, yes, this is being reposted. It's been so long since I dropped it, most folks probably don't remember where it left off. On top of that, I had to re-work both "Voodoo Doll" and this tale to correct errors in the date (my fault: I didn't realize the show set "Doll" a year earlier than I stated in my version) and to bring both tales in line with the backstory as it's come out in the other tales.  
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_So...the characters of Frank & Joe Hardy, their dad Fenton and Aunt Gertrude all belong to the Simon & Schuster. Those characters __**as portrayed here **__are based on the 1970s TV show "The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries" that starred Parker Stevenson & Shaun Cassidy, created by Glen A. Larson, with my own AU twist. The show accepted paranormal phenomena as real, and I've taken that ball and run very very far with it. For those not familiar with the show, Bayport is in Massachusetts, the Hardys' mother is dead, Joe never dated Iola, and Aunt Gertrude lives with the family. The brothers are also a bit older in the show: Frank and Joe are 19 and 18 here, respectively. _And yes, it's THAT Jamie._  
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_Please note: this is a sequel to "Blood Circles: Voodoo Doll", and picks up right after that one left off, so much of this tale may not make sense unless you've read that one._

_Quick definition of terms & Gifts:_

_**Shimá = **"mother" (lit. "my mother"). Navajo**  
>shiché'é = "<strong>daughter" (lit. "my daughter). Navajo**  
>Magic = <strong>energy & reality manipulation, the ability to warp and shape energy to a desired effect.**  
>amp (amplifier): <strong>able to boost others' Gifts up to crazy levels.**  
>Spirit-Sight: <strong>able to see ghosts, fairies, things that go bump in the night - in the '70s show, Joe seems to have this; he was always seeing weird stuff that no one else did.**  
>Jack <strong>(aka Jack of All Trades) or a "mix": someone with a touch of several Gifts**.  
>TK, telekinesis (also called teek): <strong>a very focused, specific mage-Gift that can lift object**s.  
>PK, or pyrokinesis ("pyro"): <strong>focused, specific mage-Gift that can set fires.**  
>Spirit-talker: (aka "medium").<strong> Someone who can communicate with ghosts. Seeing with the Sight doesn't necessarily mean being able to hear them.**  
>Telepath: <strong>able to speak mind-to-mind**  
>Empath: <strong>able to sense, control, and manipulate others' emotions. The term 'path in these tales refers to both telepathy and empathy, since both usually appear in conjunction. **  
>Healing: <strong>being able to heal wounds with the force of one's will. Sometimes takes the form of just speeding up the natural healing. Rare forms can also sense/heal disease. This is the rarest of all the Gifts.**  
>Far-sight: <strong>seeing things at a distance that normally couldn't be seen.**  
>Precognition (aka "precog"): <strong>seeing the future.**  
>Touch-reading: <strong>able to see what happened by touching an object in the vicinity._

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_Spring 1978: San Francisco_

He liked pain.

Edward added in another careful line to his drawing, deliberate, dark, heavy. That was the best part about drawing. You could do whatever you wanted to your picture, and there weren't any messy after-effects such as screaming that drew too much attention or adults who seemed to always interfere at precisely the wrong moment.

He didn't mind the blood, though. It was all part of it. It was proof of endurance, proof of what had occurred, proof of one's strength when another's flowed. Tac said that, and Edward believed him. Tac never lied. As long as the blood wasn't his, Edward could deal. If he was giving the pain, he wasn't receiving it.

That was the best part of all.

He sat alone in the corner of the abandoned apartment building, old pencils and crumpled paper scattered around him. He'd had to leave that stupid shelter for the moment. The adults were getting too nosy. Especially that ugly little blonde.

Edward might have to eventually do something about two of those children, too, though for now, they were obeying the fear and keeping his silence.

He was special. They were not. The group had told him that. The group had given him Tac. The group had assured him that Edward's special-ness was a gift, proof of his superiority that he could be Tac's vessel. The group knew a lot. The group had accepted Edward and given him Tac. They listened to Tac. And all Edward needed was to make the final step, to make the final choice, to find a truly willing victim, and Edward would never be hurt again.

Tac had promised him, and Tac never lied…

# # #

Rita was dreaming. It was a good dream.

Food, lots of food: hot tortillas fresh from the griddle and wrapped around smoky-sweet pork and peppers fresh-picked from the farm that morning, oozing melted, hot _queso fresco_. Warm, soft bed with colorful blankets, a pillow that smelled of fabric softener and not the sour musk of whoever Mama had been with. Windows that showed nothing but hills covered in green grass and those silly big-eared sheep. They nuzzled her and lipped her nose, and Rita giggled, her hands deep in their thick wool…

"_Get up."_

Something shook the world, a rude hand interrupting the food, bed, and paradise. Rita stayed right where she was, curled deeper into her dream. Whatever it was, it was rude, and Mama said to ignore rude people. Rita didn't want to wake up. Waking up meant bad things.

"_Get up. Now. You must move."_

The hands lifted her bodily out of the dream, shaking her so hard that Rita gasped — and she was staring into That Face.

"Leave her alone!" Emelio rushed That Face in an attempt to tackle, but That Face only stood there, unmoved.

"Eme!" Behind That Face, Mama stood, eyes wide with shock.

Eme was Rita's brother. Eme insisted he was her _big_ brother, but he wasn't _that_ big. He was only nine. But he was smart, he was fast, and he didn't let anyone hurt Rita, ever, not since one of Mama's customers had thrown Rita down the stairs last year. But then Mama had brought them here…

That Face set Rita down. Yawning, she rubbed at her eyes as Mama helped her struggle into clothes. Mama's face was pale, and she fumbled at the zippers and shoelaces, then wrapped Rita in one of the warm, colorful blankets.

Now Rita was scared and she clung to Mama. Mama only looked scared when the people wanted Rita in the Room. No, this time Rita wouldn't go, she wouldn't, she wouldn't!

"There is no time. If you want to live, you must come now." His words barely understandable through his accent, That Face wore his usual wide-brimmed leather hat, leather jacket, and rich-people's sunglasses — even now, even though it was dark outside the window — and always, always, the glow around him, hard-edged light of his clothes and the softer, fainter glow that emanated from That Face himself. That Face was always calm, ever since the Elvis-Man that Mama giggled over had assigned him to watch Rita and Emelio.

"Saul won't like it, Vladi," Mama whispered. "He won't hurt us. I know he won't."

"He already hurts us!" Eme burst out. "He hurts Rita and you don't care, Mama!"

Mama raised her hand, but That Face grabbed it, stopping her before she could slap Emelio.

"Stay if you wish," That Face said. "But the children come with me, whether you will or no."

Mama fidgeted, then dropped her gaze. "Do as he says." Fear was thick in Mama's voice.

"Carry her." That Face scooped Rita up and handed her to Mama. "Come."

Rita couldn't walk that well. Despite being big brother, Eme clung close beside Mama, too, as they followed That Face through the People's farm. Rita could see lots of lights near the dining hall, but That Face was leading them in the opposite direction, towards the fields — Rita's heart leaped in excitement, and she stuffed her thumb in her mouth to keep quiet, as she hadn't done since she'd been real little. They were getting out!

Eme and Rita had been so excited when Mama had told them about it — a free vacation to this farm, offered by someone Mama had loved before Rita was born. When the man had found her again, Mama had acted like the older girls at the shelter who giggled over the guys in Karma. Mama had believed the man when he'd said he still loved her. He looked a lot like Elvis, but he'd scowled when Rita had called him that, and Mama had been quick to shush her.

It'd been a fairy tale, the way Mama told it, and this farm was paradise, compared to their tiny, run-down apartment in the projects of Hunter's Point. For the first day or so, it had been, anyway. It was a real farm full of sweet-smelling meadow grass and funny sheep and fresh, good food that Rita and Eme had gorged on. Everyone had been smiling and happy to see Rita and Eme. Everyone had given them treats, and there'd been other children to play with, and Rita didn't have to worry about hiding from Mama's customers…

…and then Elvis-man had taken Rita and Eme into the Room.

Rita shivered, ducked behind the big stinky wheel of one of the tractors. That Face had them ducking and hiding, waiting in shivering silence behind buildings and bales of hay and tractors as others passed by. He was acting a lot like the secret agents on TV, in fact, and Rita tried to stay as quiet as she could. She knew about secret agents. She and Eme loved those shows on TV, with all the exciting and dangerous people trying to help others out.

Way over there, Rita saw people lining up outside the dining hall. It confused her. It was well past bedtime, and Elvis-Man enforced bed-times, since everyone had to work on the farm. Oh — wait. A drill. Was that all? The Elvis-Man did the drills a lot. Everyone stood in a line, and they got a paper cup full of Kool-aid. Rita didn't understand it, but it seemed important to the Elvis-Man that they drink Kool-aid. So why were Mama and That Face acting so weird?

"This way," That Face whispered. "Hurry."

He led them out across the fields…then light burst over them. Shouts, a sharp shock of noise, and Mama grabbed Eme and hit the ground, covering both Rita and Eme as best she could. That Face ran towards the noise. There was another noise, the light cut off, and then That Face came back, wiping his hands on a dirty handkerchief.

"Move," he said.

Through the dark fields — more lights had come on back towards the farm, shouts, weeping, people crying out — but That Face kept them moving. Rita clung to Mama as best she could, but it was hard. That Face led them a long ways out, through a gully and up a dry, weedy slope until they reached a small VW Bug, hidden in the brush next to one of the unpaved access roads.

"Go," That Face said to Mama, after she'd loaded Rita and Eme into the back. "Drive that way, to Milpitas. No headlights until you reach it. Do not stop for anyone. Pull into the McDonald's lot and wait. I will meet you there." Then, when Mama hesitated, he grabbed her, pulled her close, snarled something out…and Mama shrank back, nodding.

Rita and Eme huddled in the dark back seat, as Mama started the Bug and drove and drove, fast and bumpy over the fields and gravel.

"We're going back to the city," Emelio whispered. "I heard him telling Mama. He wants us out before they really hurt us."

Wide-eyed, Rita sucked in a breath. She'd been praying, she'd been hoping, and Jesus and the pretty Lady of Guadalupe had sent her that wonderful dream, a dream that That Face had interrupted, and he'd led them to freedom. It was a sign, it had to be a sign…


	2. Hunters

_Late February 1978: New Orleans_

"Ready when you are, partner." Joshua Thomas settled into a cross-legged sit.

They'd cleared this spot as best they could, a small spot of grass just near the collapsed wall of the wrecked warehouse. Kris Mountainhawk wasn't about to try this on pavement; the thought made her legs hurt.

It had surprised her that Joshua's aunt, Alma Duprè, had police contacts — though, thinking about it, it shouldn't have. Alma had spoken, Alma had gotten sharp, and Alma had obtained clearance to the crime scene. The police investigators and recovery crew ignored the little group of Center folk, save for nervous glances, quickly averted. They didn't know who Joshua and Kris were, but they knew Alma, that was certain.

Never mind that Joshua and Kris were both a part of the reason for the crime scene — them and Frank and Joe Hardy. Joshua was lean, Black and Creole, his short dreads threaded with carefully-chosen obsidian beads carved with voodoo _vévés_. He stood out in all the ways Kris didn't: his tie-dyed _dashiki _to her faded gray, his black to her blonde, his flamboyance to her small, plain, and easily overlooked.

Joshua and Kris had waited as long as they dared for Kris to recover and for them both to get strength back. They didn't dare wait longer. The NOLA police had been reporting incidents: sightings, sickness, and nausea, and not just from dealing with the bodies — these men were used to dealing with gang violence. NOLA Center had stronger spirit-talkers, Voodoo-trained and not, but all of them had refused — with hysterics — to deal with the aftermath of Orrin Thatcher and Claire.

Two of the spirit-talkers in question were battle-hardened and _not_ prone to hysteria: a Jewish-German survivor of the camps and a former Army nurse who'd worked with the MASH unit at Tay Ninh.

Full formal casting of protections this time, a careful mix of Joshua's Voodoo Catholicism and Kris's Wicca: angels, guardians, and elements all invoked at the quarter points, the circle delineated with holy water, braided green and red cord, blessed salt, and sage. The quarters were further marked by thick pillar candles blessed by both Catholic priest and Wiccan priestess, and inscribed with the _vévés _of the archangels and elemental symbols_,_ the Hebrew lettering of the names of God and the Theban of Goddess.

Outside the circle, Alma stood watching, along with one of the Bay Area Blades: a street-tough Hispanic man named Angel who had a .45 in hand…and certain orders.

They weren't taking any chances, not after what had happened.

That 'no chances' had included waiting for the Hardys to go home. With Frank and Joe having been dead-center of the killers' downfall — and the instigators — neither Kris nor Joshua wanted backlash hitting the brothers, not with Joe mostly untrained and vulnerable from his injuries. Hopefully, sheer distance, Lake Ponchetrain, and any amount of other water and boundaries between New Orleans and Bayport would confuse that potential trail.

Kris shifted until she found a position that she could hold while in trance. 'Comfortable' wasn't possible, not with the heavy plaster cast on her right arm and shoulder — now decorated with yellow smiley faces and cartoony fantasy monsters, thanks to Joe and Frank ambushing her with Crayola markers during her visits to Joe's hospital room. She hadn't minded. It'd been worth it to get Joe grinning like that, more so when she and Joshua turned the tables and did the same to Joe'scasts on his last day in the hospital, especially when Joshua had recruited two young — and pretty — nurses' aides to join in.

It'd been hysterical, watching Joe attempt to play smooth and suave around the aides despite his casts, but Kris had taken the markers away from Joshua after one particular design had Joe blushing deep scarlet and the aides giggling. Though Frank's gleeful, wicked laughter had been doubly worth it — and Fenton's shocked face,_ triply_ worth it.

Because of that, Joe got stubborn, Joe had insisted, and the picture had remained, unchanged.

Too bad Kris couldn't have gone with them back to Bayport to see their Aunt Gertrude's reaction.

Kris gripped the cast with her good hand. Happy, real memories, grounded in that solid, real cast marked by her big brothers. At this point, she needed all the help she could get.

No painkillers for the last 48 hours. Nothing to eat save orange juice and a small bowl of Cheerios this morning. Nothing to interrupt her concentration. At her nod, Joshua pressed 'play' on the small boom-box. The tape was a gift from one of her adoptive aunts on the Navajo reservation, a recording of a drum circle, and the rhythm resonated through Kris's chest and made it easy to slip into trance. Since she was adopted, Kris made no claim on that heritage, but the spirit and heart behind the gift meant more protection.

Kris met Joshua's gaze. "Let's hunt."

She pulled her knife, planted it deep in the earth in front of her, watched as Joshua did the same, then closed her eyes, focused on her breathing: matching rhythm and beat, loosening her hold on her body…

…then stepped out.

She was a jack, a mix of many minor Gifts save one — this one. Stepping out had always been easy for her, too scarily easy, but now she was adding something to it, something she'd never dared before, something that Joshua had thought might be possible, given what she and Vão had already been able to do.

The warehouse and grounds wavered, skewed, as if seen through glass blocks. The thick energy of their spell-cast circle surrounded her and Joshua, a comforting blanket of protection — but the protection wasn't for their spirit-selves, only for the bodies left behind.

Bodies, plural. This time, Joshua was coming with her.

She watched as the vibrant halo of energy around Joshua eased from fiery gold down into the deep blue-black between alpha and theta states. Then she grasped his hand, pulled him up and out. Joshua stood shuddering, swaying as if he wanted to just lay back down and sleep.

It'd worked.

"Don't look back," she whispered. More felt than heard, any speech in this state, as if the sound had been cut from the air, leaving only the after-echo of words. "Focus on your hands if you start having trouble."

He nodded, his gaze firm on her.

With an inner clench of will, she stepped through the protections and out into the open, pulling Joshua with her. The world solidified, though faded and gray, muted and silent, closed-in as if she'd been encased in thick foam. No subtle movement of air, no birds, no traffic, no breeze despite the nearness of the river, everything muted and dim — the physical world needed physical bodies to truly live in it. Ghosts caught here after death were almost always desperate, trapped in a pathetic, stagnant mockery of life.

This was the In-Between, the underpinnings of the physical realm where matter and spirit intertwined. Not the true Afterworld, not even the Otherworld of shamanic and ritual trance, more akin to the skeletal structure of buildings under the drywall and glass.

"_Chè,"_ Joshua murmured, "I will never, ever, call this 'easy' for you again. You have my full and fervent permission to slap me straight if I ever forget."

"You would say that when there's no witnesses," Kris said.

At the walls of the warehouse, they both halted. Joe had seen these clearly; Kris had only caught glimpses before. Now, faced with them full-on…

Too many. All young, none older than early twenties, as far as she could tell. They wavered in and out, blending with the air and back, insubstantial and faint even for here. All bore the marks of their tortured deaths; their torment poisoned the air, screamed itself out to the In-Between.

Next to her, Joshua murmured in prayer, his phantom touch firm on her shoulders. Power flowed, and the area around them brightened as if she and Joshua stood in full, vibrant sunlight, not this gray half-world.

It had worked. They hadn't been sure it would. If Joshua was still able to channel his mage-Gift here, they might survive the worst.

So. Part one of what they'd come here for: to free the trapped spirits to the Afterworld. Already the shades had noticed the golden light, were reaching yearning hands towards it, though none moved nearer. Kris moved to the closest — a young girl with cornrows and a torn pink dress — and grasped the girl's hand —

Her hand went straight through.

_That shouldn't happen!_

As Kris stood shocked, the shade of the young girl sank to the ground, spread out as oil on water…and melted away.

Frozen in fear, Kris couldn't move, until pain echoed, pulling her back to _now_. The cast on her arm, a solid weight bright with color and happy memory: Frank and Joe had taught her, back when, how to stand up to fear…

"Dear God," Joshua whispered.

Steeling herself, Kris went to the spot. Nothing, not even an after-image, not even an echo.

As if the person never existed.

Kris clenched her fear down. She and Frank had broken the circle. Thatcher and Claire were dead. The explosion had destroyed whatever spell-work was going down. It had to have. _It had to!_

"Expedite, guard them, give them peace." Joshua knelt beside her, touched the spot, was silent for a moment. "Jesus wept. Drained. Full burn-out. There's nothing left."

"_How?"_

He met her gaze, then nodded towards the center of the space.

Together Kris and Joshua moved towards it. The multitude of shades around them melted from their path, fading back into the thick air. Voices surrounded them, whispers just at the edge of hearing. They were being watched, Kris could feel it, a slimy electric presence that permeated the space…

…wait…

When Joe had been in the hospital, Kris had taught him a little magic to keep him distracted from the relentless boredom and pain of hospital routine — small things only, to avoid overtaxing a body over-burdened with healing and pain meds. She'd gotten Joshua and Angel to spell-infuse small crystals so she could show Joe about signature — "magic fingerprints", she'd called it, hoping it'd catch his interest. Joe had picked it up fast…then, slow and halting, had told her about what he'd felt here. Joe had used those exact words, describing how Thatcher's magic had felt — slimy electricity.

Oh gods. No.

"It's still active." Joshua knelt beside the shadowy circle and triangle, but then he twisted around, his gaze traveling over the space. "You're the ritual expert. Figure out what that's really for. I'll guard."

The light around Joshua intensified as he kept watch. Kris knelt, reaching to the circle. She had to do this quickly; stepping out was torturous on the physical body. Already she could feel her body pulling her back, exhaustion beating at her as she focused, studied, untangled thread by thread, trying to _see…_

"Hawk," Joshua said suddenly, "we're leaving. Now."

He pulled her up —

— it attacked.

Raging, hungering anger swept over them — it wanted them, it wanted vengeance. Joshua's light wavered as a fire in strong wind, but he raised his hand, shouted pure defiance and strength. His light flared, then burned, fiery wings mantled, a sword upraised —

With a hard shock, Kris jolted, opened her physical eyes to see Joshua staring back at her, then both collapsed forward onto each other.

"Never again," Joshua murmured. "Never, ever, again. We got lucky. We got damn lucky. God, god, god…"

"_Oye_, _plumacita bonita,"_ Angel drawled, startling them both, "our date still on for tonight?"

"_Come la mierda y muere_, Angel," Kris croaked. Her head was pounding, thick and nauseating, her vision haloed and blurred.

"Ours is," Joshua said to Angel, with a bare grin, "and you're buying."

Angel relaxed and holstered his gun. Then he tossed a couple bottles of Gatorade into the circle. "Drink. I'm not dragging your ugly butt back to the car, Sarge." Then Angel stopped, considered. "Hawk's pretty little one, though…"

Despite the pain, Kris rolled her eyes. Yeah, back in the physical, definitely.

Joshua uncapped the Gatorade, downed most of it in one gulp. "Those spirits — they were being drained to whatever that thing was."

"Collection," Kris whispered, shivering. Alma wrapped a blanket around her, then Kris gasped as Alma laid her warm hands on Kris's shoulders. Under Alma's Healing, the migraine ebbed enough for Kris to speak. "It was a channel. Collecting them. That thing in the center, not just for summoning. Containment."

"Collection for what?" Joshua stopped, closed his eyes. "Oh no. He wasn't summoning Samedi — god dammit. That's why. _That's why."_

Cold, Kris was so cold. She couldn't warm up; it all clicked. They'd given the Hardys' dad, Fenton, a bit of work while he was here, to run down information on Orrin Thatcher. Something plausible: to find a possible motive for why a respected scholar had done such things. It'd given Fenton an outlet for his well-justified anger — shouting at UK bureaucrats for information on the SOB who'd almost killed his sons — and kept Fenton busy and out of the way, giving Joe needed space and time for both brothers to talk to Kris, Joshua, and Mar.

What Fenton had found: Thatcher had terminal cancer. When he'd left England, Thatcher had been given less than a year to live.

That'd been three years ago.

Joshua handed Kris the other bottle of Gatorade and two Demerol, glared until she downed both.

"Orders, Sarge?" Angel said.

Joshua breathed out, long, tired. "The police have had long enough to mess around. Grab Evangeline. Both of you go over that mess in there. Don't leave a single tile uncrushed. Salt, holy water, smudge-bomb with asafetida, cayenne and garlic, the full drill. Then sweep it all out and dump it in the Gulf."

"You would assign me Eva," Angel groaned. "You and Mar, I swear. C'mon, Sarge, assign me a good-lookin' woman, for a change."

"That bad?" Alma said.

"Worse." Joshua rubbed at his temples. "_Nainaine_, after they're done, get Father Louis. Both of you do full exorcism and funeral rites." Joshua's mouth quirked. "The stuff we don't tell the pope about, I mean. See if the Baptists have anyone to do the same."

"Josh…" Kris couldn't catch her breath. "That couldn't have been Thatcher. It couldn't have been."

"We can't take the chance." Joshua sighed again. "So much for giving Frank and Joe a good long time at home to recover."

Oh gods. If it was Thatcher, if he'd been using blood magic to prolong his own life — or worse — bad enough that she and Joshua had interfered. But Joe, Gifted and mostly untrained, on whom Thatcher had been working blood magic and who'd nearly become one of those trapped shades…

…and through Joe, Thatcher would now have ties to Frank.

"We're hauling them out to Bay Area ASAP," Joshua said, "no matter what excuse we have to use to do it."


	3. Red Skies at Night

_**A/N: When I logged on yesterday, I discovered quite a few reviews that I didn't get notified of. So...thanks to Xenitha & Leyapearl (two awesome writers in their own right!), Arivoctix, ChrisDaughterOfApollo, & the guests for your reviews when I dropped off the map. Such things mean a lot, to see that people were still searching these things out & reading them when I wasn't posting! **_

_**To answer Xenitha's question openly here, yes, this will be a full repost from start to full finish. There's been enough time since I dropped off the map & enough changes that a repost makes sense (er, & you might want to go back & read the first chapter, too; that's one of the major changes.) I'm shooting for every-other-day posts, but please note, folks, my sense of time is really wonky due to my health & meds. Feel free to nudge me via PM if it looks like I've forgotten, eh?**_

_**Back to the story...**_

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_Early April 1978: Bayport, MA_

"Sorry, Mar, can you repeat that?" Phone in hand, Frank glanced towards the living room; the argument had gotten louder. Well, Dad had. Joe had gone silent. Frank couldn't see his brother from the kitchen, but Dad was pacing, and his pleading had changed to full-throttle frustration.

"Joseph Hardy, you won't even pass the _physical!_ Police departments _require_ that! If you can't get the work requirement —"

"It doesn't have to be with the police, Dad." Tight. Controlled. From the sound of his voice, Joe was barely holding back. "Any licensed private eye could —"

"My work is even _more_ dangerous. No, Joe. You're not able to do it. _You have to accept that!"_

"Frank?" Mar said, over the phone.

"Sorry," Frank sighed; Mar Mountainhawk was calling long-distance from San Francisco. She didn't need her phone charges run up. "Yeah. We sent the packets out yesterday."

Behind him, Aunt Gertrude made a _tut_ sound. She was chopping onions and celery for soup and pretending not to listen to either the phone chat or the argument. Frank knew better.

There was jostling on the other end of the line, then Kris's voice came on. "Big brother, you need me and Josh to come out there and bust heads?"

Despite the situation, despite the argument — now sudden, cold silence from the living room — Frank smiled. She always sounded so serious. "It's okay, Tag. We'll manage."

He heard her hesitation. "Hang in there, big brother."

Kris was Mar's adopted daughter and the brothers' tagalong, a couple months younger than Joe; Frank and Joe had adopted the little abused runaway, too, as their "official kid sister" when they were kids. The Mountainhawks had been the Hardys' next door neighbors for years, until Mar's company had transferred her back to San Francisco — that'd been the story then, anyway. Finding out differently was part of the reason Frank and Joe were having problems now.

Dad's voice raised. "Joe, look…"

"Dad —"

"…your uncle Mick's offered to take you on."

"A _bartender? _You can't be _serious!"_

"There's more to running a business than that, Joseph!"

Frank's hands clenched around the phone: back to that. There was silence on the other end of the line, then Mar came back on. "Frank, dear, why don't you and Joe come out and visit us for the summer?"

That was more than Frank could ever have hoped for. He opened his mouth to give an enthusiastic, heartfelt _yes…_then reality sunk in. "We can't afford plane tickets, Mar. Joe can't handle a road trip."

"Plane tickets for what?" Aunt Gertrude said.

"Don't worry about it," Mar said, on the phone. "Consider it an early birthday gift for both of you."

At that point, Mar qualified for god-hood. Frank heard Kris mutter something in the background, but Mar shushed her. Right now, Frank wasn't about to argue; the living room had gone silent again. "I will," Frank allowed relief to sink through his voice, "and thanks, Mar. You're a lifesaver."

"Frank Hardy, don't you dare ignore me." Great, now Aunt Gertrude was going to start.

"Anytime, dear," Mar said. "I'll call back once I get it set up. As my little squirrel said —" That got a muffled "_Mar!"_ in the background, "— hang in there."

More jostling, then Kris came back on the line. "Tell Joe to bring his 'print kit. Josh says he's got plans."

"Plans?"

"He goes _muahaha_ whenever I ask. Seriously, pack whatever Sherlock stuff you can get away with."

Trust Tagalong to call their lab gear "Sherlock stuff". Smiling, Frank hung up. The thought of having to survive until autumn here in Bayport had not been pleasant. Problem was, working for Dad meant little back-up funds, save what Dad allowed and the odd reward or two that Frank and Joe had earned over the years on their own. College tuition, room, and board were more than enough pay for a pair of unlicensed teens, according to Dad, and he'd never put his sons on the payroll. That hadn't been a problem before, but now…

"Plane tickets?" Arms crossed, Aunt Gertrude faced him. "You're not about to go gallivanting all over the country again, young man."

Frank headed for the living room. Best to get all the yelling over at once.

Jaw tight, shoulders hunched, hands clenched on the cushion, Joe sat on the edge of the couch, not looking at Dad. Not entirely cold silence: Dad had lowered his voice to quiet pleading.

"Son, Mick needs the help. He's got a good, solid business, and none of his girls are interested. He needs a manager."

The problem with having a detective and former NYPD cop for a father: Dad knew all the tricks and especially how to use emotional blackmail. His back to his father, Frank got between them and offered Joe a hand up. "C'mon. Let's walk."

Behind him, Fenton sighed, frustrated. Joe took the offered hand, levered himself up and used Frank's shoulder for balance until Joe got steadied on his crutches.

"Fenton, Mar's sending them plane tickets," Aunt Gertrude said.

Well, Frank hadn't expected to clear the door.

"Plane tickets?" Dad said. "But you haven't been accepted yet. School doesn't start until September — Frank, you are not leaving this house until you explain."

Frank didn't turn around; he met Joe's gaze. "Mar's asked us to visit for the summer."

Joe closed his eyes, heaved a long sigh of his own.

"No," Dad said.

_That_ tone. Frank clenched his jaw. "We've never been to San Francisco." Reasonable. Even. As calm as he could manage. "We'll be staying with Mar and Kris. They want us to have some fun before school starts." Mar hadn't said that specifically, but probably true.

Dad didn't know the whole story behind New Orleans, only that Mar and her "company" had been providing security for the Karma tour when the band members were grabbed by a serial killer — the same killer who'd crippled Joe. That Frank and Joe had gotten involved had been presented as unfortunate coincidence.

That coincidence had led to the brothers being recruited as guardians and hunters for the Association — not that Frank or Joe had told Dad _that_, either.

"Was this Mar's idea," Dad said to Frank, "or _yours?"_

Gritting his teeth, Frank said nothing. He had to stay calm; getting angry played right into a losing game. But Frank could see Joe's hands white-knuckled around the crutches.

"Joe needs to rest," Dad said. "He's not up for a cross-country trip. He's barely out of casts. You heard the doctor."

That same doctor — a Bayport specialist, not the doctor that Mar and Joshua had tried to convince Fenton to use — had wanted to put Joe in a wheelchair. But before Frank could respond, Joe turned. "How about you let _me_ decide what I'm up for?"

"Now, Joseph," Aunt Gertrude said, "you know you need help. Mar's got both her business and that school of hers. She won't have time to look after you properly."

"She doesn't have to. Frank'll be there. He can —"

"Just as he did in New Orleans?" Aunt Gertrude snapped.

"_If it wasn't for him —"_ Joe bit the rest off, his jaw clenched, when Frank clamped his hand down on Joe's shoulder.

No, they didn't need to go into that.

"The answer's no," Dad said to Frank. "You're not going to drag Joe all the way across the country. You two can rest here at home." _Not after last time_, the unsaid implication. _Not after what you let happen._

All the way across the country wasn't far enough, to Frank's mind. But he had to stay calm. "You're forgetting one thing. How are you going to stop us?"

Sudden, shocked silence.

"C'mon, Joe." Frank pushed the screen door open, let Joe precede him out the door.

They made it to the park across the street before Joe exploded — but not the explosion Frank expected. Joe hurled both crutches away with all his strength; they landed several yards out in the grass. His breath heaving, Joe stood staring after them, then staggered forward one step, then two, then his legs gave out. Joe caught himself on his arms before he hit the dirt, and remained bent over, panting.

Frank held his hand out. Waited.

Joe didn't take it. "Dad's right," he rasped. "What good am I? Can't walk. Can't fight. Useless, useless, _useless."_

"How about you let Josh decide what you're good for?" Frank squatted next to Joe. "He knew. He could see it. And he still offered."

"He didn't know. He couldn't know —"

"Then we'll still be in San Francisco," Frank said firmly, "with a free ride to SFSU, and we'll figure something else out. There's plenty of bars there, too."

Joe broke, a breathy sob of laughter. "Right."

This time Joe took the offered hand, let Frank help him up. Frank helped Joe stagger over to collapse onto one of the picnic tables, then sat next to him. The park had become a needed refuge, just far enough away from the house for privacy, but near enough for Joe to escape to easily. It was calm here, surrounded in fresh spring green and budding trees, kids running off after-school energy on the monkey-bars and swings. A warm, sunny, late-April day, the air had the damp earthy smell that meant a storm was on the way, and to the west, huge clouds were thickening and darkening.

Joe eyed the park around them, each person, each movement. Frank was careful to position himself so that he partially faced Joe, able to see behind him. Joe would notice it, he'd pick it up, and Frank was even more careful not to notice that Joe had relaxed: someone safe watching his back.

"Tag said to bring the Sherlock stuff," Frank said, after the silence had stretched too long. "Especially for you to bring your 'print kit. Something about Josh having plans_._ So it sounds like he's got some idea what you're good for." When Joe still didn't answer, Frank leaned into his line of sight. "We can always rent you out to rich tourist women, if it comes to that."

Joe bowed his head. "If they don't run screaming first, you mean."

Frank sighed. Too true. After two months of helping Joe with his injuries, both in the hospital and at home, Frank had become used to Joe's scars, but they weren't pretty. Despite the warm day, Joe wore long-sleeves, his flannel shirt buttoned close to hide his chest. But the shirt couldn't hide the raw-looking rope-scars around Joe's neck, nor the uneven look of his left hand from shattered bones, nor that his voice rasped, nor that Joe limped — though _staggered_ and _lurched _were closer to the truth.

Even scarier, Thatcher had left Joe's face untouched. Frank did not want to think on those implications.

Motion caught his gaze, a dark Lincoln sedan coming up the street and pulling into the Hardys' driveway. "Hammond's back," Frank said. Dad's FBI contact, Harry Hammond had dropped by a few times since the brothers had gotten back from New Orleans, for closed-door conferences in Fenton's office.

"Maybe he'll send Dad after Dracula again," Joe said.

Considering what had happened during that particular case, and how Joe had reacted when Dad had nearly died during it… Frank gripped Joe's shoulder, a rough brother-to-brother shake.

Silence held for a while, which Joe finally broke. "When did Mar say?"

"She'll call back." Which meant Frank was going to have to run interference on the phone to make sure her call got through. Given Dad and Aunt Gertrude's reaction, Frank wouldn't put it past them to "forget" to mention a call. Frank didn't want to think like that, but after the last two months…

"Hey, boys."

That startled both Frank and Joe into turning. Harry Hammond stood a few feet away, a square-jawed, dour-faced man in a dark suit. His whole demeanor screamed _government agent_, and in the past, Frank and Joe had always made excuses to hang out nearby whenever Hammond visited Dad. It'd meant something interesting, something mysterious, something _exciting._

But now…

Frank eyed the man, wondering how Hammond had managed to come up on them without either noticing. Granted, he'd been in Frank's blind spot, but Joe should've seen something.

"Am I interrupting something?" Hammond didn't come closer.

Both brothers shook their heads. Frank nodded at the other side of the picnic table. "Have a seat."

Smiling, Hammond remained standing. "It's a shock to realize how much you two have grown. Long way from the kids trying to convince stupid adults about a doctor murdering runaways."

Frank didn't return the smile, only exchanged a fast glance with Joe. This wasn't expected at all.

Hammond sighed. "Sorry. It's the father in me coming out. Your dad's told me so much about you over the years. Proud that you're following in his footsteps."

"Not now —" Joe cut himself off, looked away.

"Because of New Orleans?" Hammond said gently.

Joe didn't answer. Frank bit back his own sigh; great, Dad had told Hammond about that. Fortunately, Dad didn't know the whole story.

"Your dad and aunt were arguing when I went in. Something about San Francisco." Hammond casually hitched a hip onto the tabletop, across from the brothers. "Joe, your dad's wrong. You've got too much brains to waste. You both do." Hammond fixed Joe with an earnest look. "You don't need to walk to work in a crime lab, or to be a fingerprint expert. Especially not with us."

Joe raised his head.

That was unexpected. "You didn't come out here to offer us jobs," Frank said.

"You're Fenton's sons, all right. No, just something to think about." Hammond pulled out a cigarette pack, lit one in a puff of smoke. "Fenton said you two got offered free rides to SFSU."

Had Dad told this man _everything?_ "Yeah. We did."

"Good school. Their criminology program's tops in the country right now. Cutting edge forensics. Which is odd, considering the city." Hammond smiled again. "You'll see. Our agents out there either really love it or absolutely hate it. 'A big glorious freak-show of a city' is how they put it. Keeps us hopping."

Somehow Frank couldn't see Hammond coming out here just to chat about school, no matter who Dad was. Hammond seemed to want something, but Frank couldn't figure out what. He wasn't sure if Joe had figured that out, but Frank had no way to clue him in, not with Hammond watching them.

"I didn't think SFSU offered free rides," Hammond said. "Except for football."

Frank shrugged.

"Yeah, well, we got lucky," Joe said, looking away again.

"The Association?"

Silence.

"We know about them." Another puff on the cigarette. "They do some good things. Or so they claim."

Frank exchanged another glance with Joe. Kris had said the Association was underground; Joshua hadn't precisely said it was secret, but the implication had been there. "We wouldn't know."

Hammond hmph'd, a smoke-puff of laughter. "Of course not. You're too smart for that." He wasn't looking at them, his gaze focused across the street. "We know some things about them. Not as much as we'd like. You can't be too careful these days. A lot of insanity coming out of the woodwork."

The fishing expedition had turned very obvious. Frank held back his words. Best to wait and see what Hammond wanted.

"You're the only known survivor of that mess at Mardi Gras, Joe," Hammond said. "I only know that because your dad told me. The Association covers their tracks real well." Another of those direct looks. "They're not so careful about who gets splattered in the process."

"If you're asking me what happened," Joe said, tight, controlled, the same voice he'd used with Dad, "forget it."

"Not at all." Hammond was back to the gentle tone. "You're still recovering, that's obvious." He leaned forward. "At some point, I will need to hear the whole story. But only when you're ready to tell it."

That was more consideration than Dad had been giving them. Frank glanced at Joe again; Joe was watching the kids on the jungle gym. But Frank knew better. Joe's hands were clamped on the edge of the picnic table, his gaze too fixed, his mouth a thin line.

"Funny, though. I wouldn't have thought Fenton Hardy's sons had what the Association recruits for." Hammond took another long drag of his cigarette.

Two could play this game. "They recruit?" Frank said.

"You tell me."

"I don't know."

"Boys, boys," Hammond sighed, "you know what I'm talking about. You haven't asked what they are or what they recruit for. Which means you do know. Which means you have been contacted. They have recruited you."

Frank said nothing; Joe was giving him a dark, slant-wise look.

"As I said," Hammond went on, "we don't know much about them. And here you've been recruited."

"What do you want?" Joe rasped.

"Don't tell me you haven't figured that out. Not Fenton's sons."

"What do you _want?"_

"Joe," Frank said.

Hammond eyed them both. Finally, he pulled out a business card and handed it to Frank. "Just in case you start wondering who you really work for." He pushed himself off the picnic table. "Call me if you need to talk."


	4. Van Diemen's Land

_May 1978: Bayport MA to San Francisco CA_

_Thatcher had gone first._

_Bound, cuffed, Joe hadn't been able to fight, hadn't been able to do anything but pray for death to come quick. Thatcher made sure that Joe faced the others, that he couldn't look away from what had been done._

_From what was coming._

"Joe?"

_Thatcher's hands were the soft wrinkled hands of an old professor who'd never done any hard work in his life. He kept them tangled in Joe's hair and yanked Joe's head back whenever Joe struggled._

_Rope scraped Joe's face, wrapped around his neck, crushed in. Joe gagged, fighting for air, just one breath, something, anything…_

Hands shook him. "Joe."

_The rope released; the weight lifted off. Limp, convulsing, Joe retched, gulping air in gasping, heaving breaths. Humming tunelessly, Thatcher picked up the hacksaw, wiped it clean with a handkerchief. The cloth came away dark red, thickly clotted._

_Claire stopped him. "I've changed my mind." Her gaze traveled Joe's body, and then she knelt over him._

_Please, God…let me die…_

"Joe!" The hands shoved him.

Joe jolted awake, caught himself before he fell, gripping the edge of the mattress and gasping some semblance of reality back. Home. He was home. Safe.

"Another one," Frank said.

Heavy, despairing weight crushed Joe down. He didn't want to face Dad again. He didn't want to face anything. It wasn't worth it. He didn't want to deal with it.

Frank's hand rested on Joe's shoulder. "C'mon. We have to be at the airport in a couple hours."

Curtains drawn back, windows open, the bedroom was flooded with sunlight. Too bright. Too cheery. Joe rolled back over, curled under the blankets. He was so tired. A couple hours meant he could put the potential confrontation off and sleep another hour, at least.

Suddenly Frank _shoved._

Joe yelped, grabbed at the mattress, but thumped onto the floor, tangled in blankets.

"Get moving, or I'm shoving you on the plane in your pajamas," Frank said.

Frank would do it, too. Somehow Joe struggled to his knees. The aroma of bacon and eggs drifted up from downstairs, along with fresh-brewed coffee. The smell only sickened him.

"Sooner you get moving," Frank said, back to calm quiet, "the sooner we can get out of here."

"You boys all right?" Aunt Gertrude called up.

"We'll be right down," Frank called back. Quieter, to Joe, "You want me to tell her you're sick?"

"I want to know where my brother is," Joe snapped, "and who this monster is that's replaced him." With that, Joe grabbed his crutch, levered himself up, and headed to the bathroom.

Crutch, singular. Joe had thrown the other into the ocean last night. Two crutches meant a cripple. Two meant he couldn't walk. One — he had a chance.

He had to believe that. He had to.

"You're welcome," Frank said, behind him.

One shower, one bowl of Frosted Flakes (all Joe could manage, despite Aunt Gertrude's fussing), and one-and-a-half hours later, they were walking through Logan International, Aunt Gertrude and Dad mother-henning Joe in turns. Hands clenched on the crutch, Joe stayed silent, not wanting an argument. Not here, not in public. Not with all these people crowding the busy airport, staring at the pathetic scarred cripple and his family.

With a weary sigh, Joe settled into a plastic seat in terminal B: a wall seat in the back corner, so he could see the whole area. Thatcher had caught him because Joe hadn't been paying attention. It wouldn't happen again.

Frank settled next to him, between Joe and the rest of the airport. Joe was careful not to notice. Saying anything would only start another fight.

The depression had set in again, heavy gray fog; Joe kept his gaze on the floor. He didn't need Aunt Gertrude's forced cheerfulness right now. He definitely didn't need Dad's worried questions.

Dad finding out that his sons had been recruited as guardians for an organization of psychically-Gifted people — Joe could hear that imagined chat in his head, and had no desire to make it reality.

Especially since Joe had been forced to face the fact that he was one of those Gifted.

"You don't stop moping," Frank muttered, "I'll run _kata_ on you right here. In front of them." He nodded at a giggly group of stewardesses near the attendant's stand.

"I'd like to see you try." Aware of Dad and Aunt Gertrude watching, Joe managed a weak smile as Frank gripped his shoulder, brother-to-brother.

Joe and Frank were opposites in almost everything but curiosity, a love of detective work, and a knack for getting into deep trouble: Frank a year older, the calm prep-school jock, solid and normal; Joe slender, long-haired-casual and now, distinctly _not_ normal. Even their clothing reflected that: Frank in a crisp ironed shirt and slacks and no other ornament save a wristwatch, Joe in jeans and soft red flannel buttoned close to hide the scars, a braided leather band around his left wrist.

The braid had a lumpy turquoise nugget threaded into it, a gift that Kris had sent after Joe and Frank had gotten home from New Orleans. Joe closed his hand around the nugget; it warmed under his touch. Kris's note had been her usual spooky-stuff that turquoise dispelled fear, and that she'd hoped it'd help: an oblique hint if Joe had ever heard one.

She'd sent one for Frank, too, but Frank never wore it. Joe felt _something_ around the stone, something that settled comfortably against his skin. He didn't care. At this point, he needed all the help he could get, real or imagined.

Finally, boarding for their flight was announced. They put up with Aunt Gertrude's fussing, then…

"Boys," Dad said, but under it were all the lectures and arguments of the last two months.

Frank turned and walked onto the plane without a word. Joe accepted a rough hug, but couldn't manage anything beyond a forced smile and a muttered "bye", aware of Dad's gaze as Joe limped away on the crutch.

He caught up to Frank on the plane. Still silent, Frank took Joe's guitar case and stowed it in the overhead. Joe wasn't sure why he'd brought his guitar. He hadn't touched it since the casts had been removed. One try, one faltering stutter of strings under his shattered hand, and something inside Joe had twisted, died.

Something familiar to cling to, maybe. That was all it was. Futile hope, futile chance, a dead dream.

Joe eyed the passengers behind them — old women in shapeless polyester dresses and a cloud of baby powder — then settled into the window seat, as Frank took the aisle seat between Joe and the rest of the plane. Before, Frank had always claimed window seats as older-brother prerogative. But Joe said nothing. If it made Frank feel better, fine.

Ten hours of a boring flight later, Frank and Joe were landing at San Francisco International and walking into the terminal — and Mar Mountainhawk ambushed them, grabbing them into giant hugs before Joe knew what was happening.

"You look better," Mar said to Joe as they headed towards the baggage pickup. She hadn't changed: an older Navajo woman with grey-streaked black hair and dried-apple face, wiry-tough despite her age. "Tons better than you did in New Orleans." Her gaze picked him over. "A crutch?"

Joe's first reaction was to be flippant and blow it off, but this was Mar. It was a relief to be honest. "I didn't want a wheelchair."

"Good. Drake'll enjoy the challenge. Our self defense teacher." That, to Joe's look. "Former Israeli Security. Don't get on his bad side."

The hopelessness welled up again. "I can't even manage _kata."_

"That's karate. That's not what he teaches. You'll see."

"Kris isn't with you?" Frank said.

"There was a situation at the shelter. Wait 'til we get in the van. We can talk there. Hungry? Or you just want to sleep the jet-lag off?"

"Both," Frank said.

"At the same time," Joe said.

Mar laughed. "You two haven't changed. C'mon."

Despite the bright sun, the breeze was chilly enough that both brothers were shivering as they followed Mar through the echoey parking garage to an old microbus, spray-painted to within an inch of its life with rainbows and graffiti. Somewhere behind them, something clattered to the asphalt, and Joe stiffened, heart pounding.

…_metal clattered the concrete nearby, as Thatcher knelt over him…_

Joe forced his hands to unclench. This wasn't _that._

"Nice." Frank nodded at the van.

"Stress-relief for our folks," Mar said. "Run around the city a bit, you'll see tons of cars like this. If all they've done is paintit, you're lucky."

Despite his exhaustion, Joe couldn't stop looking around during the ride in; his body told him it was much later, but the sun was too high in the sky, too bright, too…just _too._ Huge terraced hills covered only in grass. Small trees, sparse and scrubby. Flat cubical houses painted in eye-watering colors. The sky and land were vast and open, compared to Bayport's claustrophobic feel.

"So let's hear the secret," Frank said. "What's 'the shelter'?"

"Runaway shelter. You'll hear it called 'Wings', short for some god-awful hippie name." Mar glanced at Joe through the rear-view mirror. "You know NOLA's hospital — all the Centers have something to keep us grounded. We live _in_ the world, not apart from it."

"I'm going to hate myself for asking," Joe said, "but what kind of situation at a runaway shelter needed _Kris_ to handle it?"

"The usual any big city shelter gets. Sometimes pimps don't get the message that a kid's no longer in their stable."

The brothers exchanged looks.

"So how starved are you? Restaurant-level or munch?" Mar grinned at Joe. "I've got bison in the fridge, if you want a cheeseburger."

The tension in Joe's shoulders had loosened — Mar's manner was casual, honest, and open, as always. No talking down. No hushed tones.

"You'll never live that down," Frank said to Joe. "Burgers are fine, Mar."

Mar nodded. "There — we're on that island. Yerba Buena."

The Center turned out to be an old rough-brick factory building put to pasture, sprawled over a cliff overlooking the Bay on the south side of the island. Mar parked the van right outside, snagged up some of their bags; as usual, Frank started to shove the rest at Joe, then stopped.

"I can help." Joe picked up his guitar case with his free hand.

With a dirty look, Frank hauled the rest of the luggage out himself and followed Mar up the walk.

Paved in brick, shaded with trees laden with red bottle-brush flowers and bordered with flowing water, the front walk ended at polished wooden doors carved with spiraled circles. Just inside those doors, Joe stopped. The first impression was space and color: a huge airy room dominated by bookshelves and stained-glass windows that lit the space in reds, blues and greens. Old sofas, overstuffed floor cushions in a riot of color and patterns. Battered wood coffee tables. A large-screen TV stood in the near corner; a gray tabby cat sprawled over the top, sleeping. A fountain of slate and river-stone gurgled next to the door, surrounded by plants.

Reading, talking, people sprawled on cushions; kids played a giggling, chaotic game of "lava-floor". Someone near the stairs was painting a large canvas, and flute music echoed from somewhere, practice runs and scales. Spiral stairs led up to a second floor landing, its wrought-iron railing running the back length.

"Not bad," Frank said. "Not bad at all."

But the room wasn't what made Joe stop. Something light and feathery had brushed over him, like a spider web.

He wasn't given a chance to check. "Can you manage stairs, Joe?" Mar said, leading them through the room; people nudged each other as the brothers passed. "We've got a cranky elevator, if you can't. Jamie, isn't it too dark for painting there?" That to a willowy paint-spattered blonde, who scowled at the large canvas.

"That's the point." The woman glanced, then turned and smiled. Her canvas was a painting of dark bricks in shadow. "These are Hawk's friends? The guys from Massachusetts?"

"Frank Hardy." Smiling back, Frank offered his hand, suddenly every inch the prep-school jock. "Good tonal study, there."

Joe sighed. Yet another woman snared by Smooth-Mover Older Brother before Joe even got a chance.

The woman raised an eyebrow, but shook the offered hand.

"I don't get introduced much." Joe reached out his own hand. His right hand: he was careful about that. No sense scaring her off. "I'm his brother, Joe. Hi."

Her smile widened. "Jamie Hollis." Her gaze stayed on Joe, her hand lingered. Her eyes were bright green, impish. "Hawk has friends like you guys? I'm taking numbers."

"I'm giving them," Joe said. It earned him another dazzling smile.

"Way too obvious," Frank murmured.

"She started it," Joe said.

Mar laughed. "They'll be here all year, Jamie. Be nice, and we'll draft you into guide duty. They're starting SFSU this fall."

"Even better," Jamie said. "I'll have them at my mercy. Muahahaha."

"C'mon, boys," Mar said, grinning. "Let's get you fed."

Picking his guitar case back up, Joe followed up the stairs, but kept glancing at Jamie. Scowling at her painting, Jamie didn't seem to notice…but when Joe hit the top of the stairs, she looked up and smiled.

Mar led them through the halls and through an archway to the living room for a warm, comfortable suite. More brick and hardwood, a sofa and over-stuffed armchairs in reds and golds, overloaded bookshelves, a large coffee table carved of driftwood, a thick area rug woven in geometric patterns and hues of gold and brown, a ten-speed leaning against the far wall. A half-wall blocked off the kitchen: granite counters, light wood cabinets and red glazed-tile floor. Sliding glass doors opened from the kitchen out to a deck.

Three doors carved with vines and spirals led off from the living room. Mar waved a hand towards the door nearest the kitchen.

"Back there — what happened to _you?"_

Kris was sprawled on the sofa, her left foot propped and taped up, deep bruising along the outer edge. "Dumb bad luck, that's what, _Shimá_. Hey, big brothers." Kris limp-hopped over to give Frank and Joe emphatic, rough hugs. "I was gonna pull a top secret kidnap mission if you two chickened out."

"No chance of that," Frank said.

"Don't change the subject," Mar said to her.

"Rammed my foot into a door," Kris said sourly. "Little toe's broke, that's all. Trevor taped it up and told me to stay off it for a couple days."

"This," Mar said to Frank and Joe, "is one of Drake's worst students. Squirrel, I think you're trying to avoid his lessons."

Squirrel. Joe exchanged a quick grin with Frank; he'd forgotten that particular nickname. They were not going to let Kris live it down.

"He's already told me I'm not exempt." Kris limp-hopped back to the sofa. "Oh, and Josh apologized. Godzilla called with some emergency, so he had to go. He'll catch you tomorrow."

"I can't wait to meet this Godzilla," Frank murmured.

"Careful what you wish for," Kris said. "He's threatening to come out and make sushi."

"Back there's your rooms," Mar said to Frank and Joe. "That hall's yours as long as you're here. If you want to redecorate, no paint and don't break the structural integrity."

Joe didn't move. "What's sushi?"

Kris only looked at him.

"You're playing spooky, Tag," Frank said.

"She's waiting for us to beg," Joe rasped. "Which we won't." It was a long-time game between him and Frank to get her to smile; she was usually so serious, it hurt. It was always worth the effort.

Right now, he needed it.

"You two need a mystery, otherwise you'll turn the place upside down looking for one." Kris had cocked her head when Joe had spoken. "Still?"

Not wanting to talk about it, Joe only followed Frank back through the door to a short hallway, and stopped again as the same spider-web feel brushed over him, stronger this time.

"You all right?" Frank said.

Joe shook his head to clear it. "Just got dizzy there."

First door to the right, bathroom. Then Joe opened the opposite door to his left.

Sunlight, windows, brick. Hardwood floor glowing in the sun. The windows took up half the wall, showing San Francisco stretched out across the sun-glittery Bay. "I'll fight you for this one," Joe said.

"No need. Look at this."

Frank had opened the last door at the end. A smaller, cozy rounded room, windows spanning the curve. Same rough brick and hardwood. Same view of the Bay.

Frank ran his hand over the bed's footboard. The post was sculpted into a dragon curling up and around the finial. "It's hand-carved."

Joe limped back to his room; his bed was carved in patterns of ivy-leaves and knot-work. He wrestled his bags in, laid the guitar case on the bed, then checked out the remaining door — an interior room, no furniture, no windows, same hardwood and brick. No lights either, for the moment.

"Good space for the lab," Frank said, behind him.

Joe nodded. He'd packed his fingerprint kit, and Frank had gotten one of the microscopes in his bags, but the photography equipment had been too heavy to bring along, save for Joe's camera and tripod, and the chemistry kit deemed too dangerous. Maybe someone here knew where they could get second-hand gear.

Still thinking, he started to follow Frank back out, but the feathery web brushed over Joe again. This time, he stopped. He'd been working a little with his Gift when he'd been alone, small things Kris had shown him in the New Orleans hospital. Breathe, settle, relax his eyes…

The walls _glowed._

Joe startled; the sight vanished. What…?

Frank was holding the door open, waiting. "You could wait until after they start the spooky stuff before you start acting weird." When Joe only stood there, Frank closed the door, cutting off sound and light from the main room. "What's wrong?"

Breathe, _breathe._ "There's magic on the walls."

"You sure?"

_Everything-has-to-make-sense_ Frank: Joe still wasn't sure how much Frank actually believed. Joe looked down. "I don't know."

Frank gripped Joe's shoulder again, firm, calming. "Okay. Probably just wards. That'd make sense."

That was the last thing Joe had ever expected to hear from Frank about any spooky stuff. "Wards?"

"Like what Thatcher had…" Frank stopped.

…_a hard shock of electricity burnt through Joe's chest…_

"_Joe."_ The grip turned into a shake. "They don't need a hole in the wall."

Just the hallway. Just Frank. Shivering, Joe breathed out. He had to stay in control. These people wouldn't want someone who kept freaking over nothing.

"C'mon, I'm starved," Frank said, the calm, in-charge Older Brother. "We'll ask Tag about it."

"Rooms okay?" Mar said from the kitchen, as they came out. Kris was at the table, slicing tomatoes. "If you need more blankets, speak up. It gets chilly out here in summer."

"We're fine," Frank said, with a quick look at Joe.

Mar set them to work slicing onions and cheese. She and Kris chatted about small things, Frank joining in with a million questions, enough that Kris limp-hopped back to her room and returned with a green paperback, _Real Magic_.

"Bonewits has an ego the size of the planet," Kris handed the book to Frank, "but he nails it down. You'll like it. Half folklore, half science, and half pure BS."

"That's three halves," Frank said, paging through it.

"Um…a wizard wrote it." Kris ducked the thrown onion-slice.

Focused on the cutting board, Joe stayed quiet. Magic on their rooms. No matter what Frank thought, it made no sense. Wards implied protection, but from what?

"Big brother?" Kris nudged him with her foot. "You okay?"

"Give him a break, _shiché'é_." Mar set the burgers onto the table. "They're jet-lagged. That wears anyone out."

Joe was grateful for the out, but he couldn't repay Mar's generosity like that. But asking straight out about the magic…? He didn't want to sound accusing, or worse, paranoid.

He settled on something he thought they'd answer. Something safe. "It feels like a cheat. You're giving us all this…" It felt like an attempt to buy his and Frank's cooperation. If it hadn't been Mar…

…_in case you start wondering who you work for…_

"You know how many bodies they found in that warehouse?" Kris said.

So much for safe. Joe had stayed away from TV, especially the news. Somehow these people had kept his and Frank's names out of the media, but any mention of the story tended to trigger nightmares…and not only when Joe was asleep.

"Thirty two," Frank said.

"Yeah," Kris said. Quiet, but not calm. "Some had been missing over two years."

…_figures moved at the edge of the circle, eyes obscured in shadow…_

Joe's hand clenched. Not here. Not now.

"You two stopped that,"Mar said_._ "You got involved with a couple Blades and the insanity they were claiming. You chose. You followed through. You call it a cheat? I call it poor payback for the price you've paid. Both of you."

"Not both," Frank said.

"Yes, _both._ Joe got the brunt, but Frank, dear, you were hit just as hard. Or are you telling me everything's normal at home?"

Blunt, honest, open. Joe bowed his head.

"I'll lay it straight," Mar said. "It's not a gift. But it's not an obligation, either. If you don't want to be Blades, that's fine. We'll still pay your way through school, no matter what you choose to do. You're _ours, _whether you acknowledge it or not."

"So that's where you learned to make speeches," Frank murmured to Joe. "Though I don't like the idea of being anyone's."

"My son," Mar said warmly, "you and Joe became mine when you took a little abused runaway under your wing and let her tag along behind you. I don't forget."

_My son. _ Mar had become foster-mother to both brothers in the years she'd lived next-door, in the wake of Mom's death from cancer. Joe looked away; Mar's words were sincere, their warmth a sorely-needed embrace.

"Not like I gave 'em much choice," Kris said.

"We had to," Frank said, grinning. "It was the only way I could get at your books, Mar."

"You haven't seen _her_ library, yet," Mar said. "Give Frank a pass through your wards now, squirrel, otherwise you'll never get any sleep."

"Wards?" Joe said. They were going to admit it openly?

Frank gave him a swift glance. "Joe saw magic on our rooms. Is that what it is?"

Kris opened her mouth. "Of course," Mar said, before Kris could say anything. "On the whole building. This madhouse has all levels of control and training. They keep us from intruding on each other accidentally."

The whole building? Curious, Joe let his eyes relax again, staring towards Kris's door — strong, hard-edged hues of indigo and some odd purplish-black that vibrated in and out of his vision, much stronger than what was on his and Frank's area…

Kris was watching him. Joe looked away. He wasn't going to ask. Not yet.

"The next couple weeks, you're on your own," Mar said. "Slack off, get used to the area, have fun. Two exceptions. Drake insisted on you both starting with him right away. Morning after, so you get over the jet-lag. And you, Joe, are going to start full training in your Gift."

"San Francisco's a hot-spot." Kris hadn't dropped that gaze; it was too much like how Claire had stared at Joe in the New Orleans hotel. "There's too many ways to get suckered in, even for normals."

"Remember that." Frank nudged Joe. "I'm the normal."

"You won't let me forget," Joe muttered.

"You'll have plenty of free time," Mar said, "even after we put you to real work. Enjoy it while it lasts."


	5. Cat's In The Cradle

_February 1978: Bayport, MA_

_It'd been late afternoon when the phone rang, a cold late winter day, and even though he'd been buried in tax paperwork, Fenton had snatched it up. He'd been expecting a call from Harry Hammond. Hopefully, new casework; the FBI paid its under-the-table freelancers well, and Fenton had wanted Frank and Joe to have a full session of college this year. He wanted his boys to have that advantage. Frank had too much brains to waste as a street cop, and Joe had a real gift for investigative forensics…_

"_Fenton?"_

_Mar Mountainhawk. Normally, he welcomed the chance to chat and get caught up. Fenton sighed. "Mar, this isn't a good time. I'm expecting an important call."_

"_This is more important," Mar cut him off. "I'm in New Orleans."_

_Where Frank and Joe were. Fenton had gotten a bonus for finishing off a case well beyond the client's expectations, with Frank and Joe's help. So Fenton had surprised his sons with tickets to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras; he wanted them to be normal young men, for a change. Just like Laura had wanted. Just as he'd promised her._

_His cop instincts now screamed in his head. "What are you doing down there?"_

"_On business. You need to come down here immediately. Joe's been hurt."_

_The words that no parent wanted to hear, words that Fenton had been certain would come sooner or later, ever since he'd started letting his sons help with his work. But…at Mardi Gras? He'd already had a phone call from the boys over a pickpocket. Surely they hadn't gone after a street thief on their own…_

_But Mar's next words dove straight into gut-seizing horror. "The Mardi Gras killer."_

"_Are — is he —"_

"_He's alive, but he's critical."_

_The NYPD-cop-part of Fenton that wasn't panicking, that wasn't running around in small, ever-tightening circles, that part knew, _knew_, that it couldn't have been chance. Not with his over-curious, mystery-hunting, be-a-detective-like-dad sons. "Frank?"_

_Mar had hesitated, and Fenton's heart seized. "Badly shaken up, but he's fine. There's plane tickets waiting for you at Logan. I've already called them in."_

_The scared-father side wanted to yell, to blame, to threaten. But the NYPD-cop side controlled himself, mindful of Gertrude in the next room, her afternoon coffee klatch with her church group. A long-distance connection wasn't the time to lose it. There wasn't time, not if Joe was in critical condition. Instead, Fenton got the plane information from Mar, gave Gertrude what he knew, and headed for Logan International._

_Please, God, don't let Joe die. Don't let my baby boy die…_

_May 1978_

Fenton watched his two sons walk away, Frank silent and cold, Joe limping on only one crutch. Fenton hadn't asked what had happened to the other. It wouldn't have gotten an answer.

He didn't know these angry, secretive boys. They'd changed. Now his sons held secrets, secrets they wouldn't talk about, secrets that were likely just as dangerous as what had nearly gotten them both killed in the first place.

It was all his fault. Reasoning that it was best to allow it while he could still control it, Fenton had relented when his sons were in high school and had allowed Frank and Joe to help in his work. Fenton had kept his sons out of the dangerous parts, kept them chivvied into the surveillance, errand-running, and scut-work. Safe. Routine. Boring.

It hadn't worked. In Kenya, Fenton had heard about the rhino stampede from N'gutu. That psychotic Stavlin had his sons trapped, when Fenton had burst in with Nancy Drew and the Transylvanian _politzia_. Callie had told him about the explosion in Bayport harbor, where Frank and Joe had been investigating a stolen artifact against both Fenton's and Chief Collig's orders. Chief Collig himself had reported Frank and Joe had nearly been burned alive before a Tony Eagle concert, a fact that his sons had hidden until Fenton confronted them. Each time, his sons had been lucky. Each time, they'd escaped by the skin of their teeth. Each time, they'd come close to getting killed, and now…

Now the luck had run out.

Why couldn't they _see?_

Fenton had promised Laura that he'd keep them safe. Laura had promised him that she'd watch over them. His wife had been dying in her hospital bed from cancer as he'd held her in his arms, and they'd promised each other.

His sons, all he had left of her. Her gift. Her legacy. Her promise. Now Joe was crippled, the evidence all too plain of Fenton's failure to keep his promise.

"I'm sorry, Laura," Fenton murmured. "I'm sorry."

"Fenton?"

Fenton looked up. Gertrude was watching him. His sons' plane was already taxi'ing down the runway, off to where he couldn't reach them, couldn't protect them, couldn't watch over them.

"There's nothing we can do about it now." Trust his sister to be blunt and practical. "Let's go home. Mar said she'd call when they got in."

It was a long, silent trip back. Fenton used the excuse of watching the heavy Boston traffic — complete with a three-car pileup that had the traffic in knots for miles on both sides of the highway — to avoid the inevitable conversation. He'd re-arranged appointments with all his clients for the day; he knew he wouldn't be any good for them at the moment.

Not that some clients ever listened. Fenton saw the dark Lincoln sedan in their driveway the moment he rounded the corner onto Elm.

Harry Hammond. Great.

Not someone Fenton could brush off, either. Hammond was his upper-level contact at the FBI, and had slipped Fenton a lot of paying work over the years, both officially and not so. Lately Hammond had been coming over quite a bit, and somehow the conversation always worked around to Frank and Joe.

Hammond leaned against the sedan, waited as Fenton pulled in and helped Gertrude out. "I knew you were taking them to the airport today," Hammond said. "I thought you might need a friendly ear."

Fenton had to admit, Hammond was comfortable to talk to; his own children were about Frank and Joe's ages. Harry understood.

"You're welcome to come in for lunch, Harry," Gertrude said. "I've got pot roast on."

Hammond blinked. "Oh. I didn't mean to intrude. I can come back later."

"No, no, come on in. Whatever you eat means fewer leftover days." Fenton managed to grin at his sister as he said it, making it plain it was a joke. "Gert's pot roast is world-famous in Bayport."

"He jokes now," Gertrude said. "Just wait until he's been on a case for a few days. He'll be grateful for those leftovers then, make no mistake."

"In that case, I'll take you up on it, and thank you," Hammond said. "My wife can't do pot roast to save her life."

Gertrude clattered around the kitchen, filling up the silence with her own chattering gossip as she dished out the meal: tender pot roast loaded with carrots and parsnips, thick slices of crusty homemade bread spread with butter fresh from the Mortons' farm. Fenton handed Hammond a beer, concentrated on his own food as he tried to keep the brooding off his face. Already the house was too quiet.

Fenton avoided looking at the two empty chairs.

"It's not like that, Gert," Hammond said, and Fenton looked up. "The media over-exaggerates it. San Francisco's no worse than New York. Better, actually, in a lot of ways." He glanced at Fenton. "I'm surprised you let them go so early, though. I thought they didn't start SFSU until the fall."

"It wasn't a 'let', believe me," Fenton said, more bitter than he intended. Frank had slapped him with that. Fenton had never believed that his first-born could be so cold. "They decided it themselves."

He'd had angry words with Mar about that, and Mar's calm logic had been just as cruel. That had to have been where Frank had learned it; Fenton had certainly never taught his sons to act like that.

Hammond pushed a stray parsnip around his plate with a thick slice of bread, sopping up the juices, then breathed out in a sigh. "They've been recruited, Fenton."

"Recruited." The word was not good, coming from a top-level FBI man, especially not one who was making a name for himself in undermining subversive groups.

Behind Hammond, Gertrude was glaring with crossed arms, a stance that Fenton knew far too well. Hammond was going to find himself on the receiving end of Gertrude's scorn in three…two…

"They're staying with friends," Fenton said, right as Gertrude opened her mouth. "Old neighbors. Mar's girl is like a sister to them. You know Mar. They lived right next door. Kris was involved in the Circle Hills thing."

"Mar," Hammond said. "Mar Mountainhawk, of the _Naabeehó Bináhásdzo _reservation in Arizona. Believe me, we know all about her."

Fenton kept his face carefully neutral. That was no surprise. Many Native Americans had FBI records, unfairly and unjustly so. Fighting for one's guaranteed constitutional rights did that, even in this day and age.

"Oh, do you, now?" Gertrude said. "Goodness gracious me. Here I thought Joe being Indian-crazy all those years was normal for a boy that age."

"My boys have not been recruited by the Native movements," Fenton said, over top of Gertrude, before she could _really_ get started. "And if they were going to work for justice for the Navajo, I'd be right behind them. For God's sakes, Harry, this is 1979_,_ not the wild wild West!"

Dangerous words to say, given that Hammond was top-level FBI, but Fenton wasn't in the mood to be polite, tactful, or careful right now.

But Hammond was slowly shaking his head: no. No.

"What," Fenton said, "you mean it's subversive to teach kids karate, then?"

"You've never heard of the Association," Hammond said.

Fenton gave him a _look._ "Music group. Sang that _Windy_ song." Laura had sung along to it whenever it came on the radio and danced with their young sons in silly '50s sock-hop-style. Joe, especially, had loved it, though Frank always covered his ears whenever Joe started singing along with their mother.

Hammond looked at him. Fenton knew Hammond hadn't meant that, but Fenton wasn't in the mood for cat-and-mouse baiting, either.

"Your boys didn't tell you," Hammond said.

There was a lot Frank and Joe hadn't said about New Orleans. Fenton knew that. More secrets. More hiding. Something he was sure would get them killed…

"If Mar is involved with whatever you're talking about," Gertrude said, "then _good_, I say."

Hammond's gaze hadn't left Fenton's. "We've talked about Joe, Fenton. While you've been so busy keeping him from his patriotic duty, another group's snatched him away behind your back. Just as I warned you."

"Like Gert said," Fenton said, but his mouth felt thick.

"Maybe," Hammond said. "But I doubt your sons would've gone hunting a serial killer on their own. Not in the middle of that big party."

"Coincidence," Fenton said. "Just bad luck. Some friends of theirs were part of the body-guard team around that rock band when Frank and Joe ran into them."

Those friends: Kris, the little tagalong who'd usually been right behind his sons whenever they'd gotten into trouble, and Joshua Thomas, who'd been in charge of Karma's security along with Mar and who'd told Fenton the story in the aftermath. Joshua had been fighting in Vietnam when Kris and Mar lived in Bayport, but Kris had always chattered about her "big Army brother" to Fenton's sons.

Running into their little tagalong with an "in" to a major music act — it would've taken an act of God to keep Joe away. Add in someone like Joshua with all kinds of exciting, dangerous stories…his sons would've been drawn in, moths to flame.

"That's what they told you?" Hammond shook his head. "You don't know the Association, Fenton. That mess at Mardi Gras had their marks all over it."

Fenton hadn't paid much attention. He hadn't cared; he'd had other things on his mind at the time. They'd saved his son. They'd kept Joe alive. That was all that had mattered.

But if they were the reason his sons were involved to begin with…

"If you're suggesting Mar had anything to do with a serial killer," Gertrude said, "you've got rocks in your head. What is this country coming to, when the FBI has to blame old women for its own failings?"

"Gert," Fenton said.

"I don't know about her," Hammond said, "but we found out about one of the others. Former Army sergeant. Special Ops. Discharged OTH." Hammond spread his hands with a shrug. "Of course, those records are supposed to be sealed."

Fenton scowled. He'd heard stories about what those serving in 'Nam had done in order to get out. He'd sympathized, somewhat; he hadn't agreed with the reasons for the war at all. Still, duty was duty. A sergeant, though — usually rank implied a commitment to the service, and Joshua had seemed proud of it.

But an OTH discharge…not good.

"We don't know enough," Hammond said. "That's the trouble. We know the Association's not with us. We know they've interfered in our operations. And we know they recruit people like Joe."

"Interfered," Fenton said. And Hammond was involved in undermining subversive organizations.

Hammond only looked at him.

It'd been Mar's idea for Frank and Joe to go to San Francisco for the whole summer. Out of Fenton's reach. Her company had offered Frank and Joe that full ride scholarship to SFSU. Also out of his reach.

"People like Joe?" Gertrude echoed. "How dare you! Joe would never fall for any Communist nonsense!"

"_Gert,"_ Fenton said again. He wasn't about to correct his sister's impression. Let her keep believing that was what Harry meant; it was safer all around.

Mar's company. Fenton had never been sure what Mar or her company did; she'd always been somewhat vague about that. Some type of security work, judging from the letters Kris had sent his sons about that rock band. "Research and human development," Mar had said, when Fenton had asked.

"I'm not going to be quiet," Gertrude said. "First he's accusing Mar, now he's trying to implicate Joe in whatever hare-brained pipe-dream the FBI's dreamed up. Total nonsense, Fenton, and you know it."

"I don't believe I was accusing anyone," Hammond said.

"I know you weren't." Fenton knew what Hammond was doing. Knew, and couldn't deny it.

Mar had become his sons' foster-mother, in many ways. She'd never snooped into Fenton's business, had never even asked, and had taught his sons all kinds of odd skills. Had earned their complete trust.

"Then again," Hammond said, as if unaware of the silence that had fallen over the kitchen, "she did live next door to you all those years. You would know her better than we would, I guess." Casual, no big deal. "If she was a spy, you would've spotted it a mile away."

"If you think I'd let anyone like that near my sons, you're crazy," Fenton said.

Mar, who knew about odd things like the Sidhe, like the Sight…and how to deal with them…

And Joe had the Sight, according to Laura, all those years ago…and more, according to some very dour federal men who'd wanted to take Joe away after Laura had died, men who'd only backed off when Fenton had applied certain pressure…

"Of course not." Hammond wiped at his mouth with his napkin, smiled at Gertrude as he stood. "That was an excellent lunch, Gertrude. I do have work to get back to, though. You'll both have to come by for dinner some time. Get your mind off the empty nest."

Fenton walked Hammond to the door. Silent. Thinking. Not liking where his thoughts were leading.

"By the way," Hammond said, in an undertone, with a glance back towards the kitchen, "I might have some work for you in a day or so. I'll let you know." Then he smiled. "Call me if you hear anything."


	6. Breakdown

_**A/N: Thanks to ChrisDaughterofApollo, Xenithia, & Caranath for the reviews, as well as to the new followers!  
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_May 1978, Bayport MA_

_Their last day in Bayport had been chilly and gray, the rain a spitting drizzle, the sand wet and smelling of seaweed and dead fish. Despite all the last minute errands, Frank and Joe had snuck out of the house when Dad and Aunt Gertrude had been occupied. Frank had waited for Joe to hobble out onto the beach and past the rise of dunes, one of the beach points along old Shore Road. Frank hadn't offered to help. It would only trigger another argument._

_They didn't need it, not now. Things were bad enough._

_Silent, Joe had settled into stance, then tossed his crutches to the sand. He could stand, somewhat._

_Frank had waited, though an enemy wouldn't wait. An enemy would never wait._

"_Okay," Joe had said finally. "Ready."_

_Frank had attacked. Basic beginner's kata. Half-speed, half-force, still, despite the past couple weeks of daily drill. Strike, downward block, turn. Upward block, strike, down block, turn._

_Joe couldn't manage the kicks, not even the low sweep; his balance was too unsteady. Frank had taught him the yellow-belt punches instead and modified the kata to suit. Spear hand, ridged hand, upper cut…_

_Even that slow, that basic, Joe couldn't keep up: missed blows, no balance, flinching if Frank moved unexpectedly or did something outside the sequence._

_Frank had said nothing, even when Joe trembled with strain. Jaw clenched, Joe struck back harder and harder, not that any of his strikes connected._

_Time to push. Being forced to react faster should help; the body remembered what the brain stumbled over. Frank had sped up, getting past Joe's guard over and over, then side-stepped and nailed Joe's back before Joe could follow the turn, a perfect training touch —_

_A yell ripping from his throat, Joe lashed out; a fiery trail of heat and light grazed Frank's face as Frank jerked back to avoid Joe's fist._

_Without missing a beat, Frank had swept Joe's feet out from under him._

_Joe had landed hard. He struggled to his elbows but remained in the sand, gulping air._

_Uncertain what had just happened, Frank had knelt beside his brother, touched his shoulder. "Joe?"_

_With a terrified gasp, Joe scrabbled back —_

"_Frank Hardy, _this_ is your idea of taking care of your brother?_"

_Dad had stood there._ _Oh no. How much had he seen? Frank hadn't thought Dad would stoop to following them. If Dad had seen Joe use magic…_

_Frank had risked a glance at his brother. Joe looked dazed, blinking up as if unsure what he was seeing._

"_Joe's just out of casts," Dad said, barely civil. "He's not supposed to stress the muscles. He has to take it easy. And here you are, hurting him _worse!_"_

"_Mar suggested it." Frank moved in front of Joe, blocking him from Dad's direct line of sight, just in case. In his mind, Frank was a kid again, fists clenched against bullies, Joe at his back. They'd always had each others' backs. Always. "It's just basic kata to get Joe moving."_

"_Blaming Mar. That's beneath you, Frank. You're the oldest. You're supposed to be more responsible. You're supposed to watch out for your brother."_

_The words punched into Frank's gut. It had occurred to Frank that Joe might have let himself get caught by Thatcher to prevent the killer from finding Frank…_

…_and all Frank had done was run._

"_The fact that you're out here instead of at home tells me you know it's wrong. You nearly get your brother killed, you go behind my back for San Francisco, now this. And you wonder why I don't trust you."_

_His jaw clenched, Frank had stood there, fighting not to yell back in Dad's face. Dad was right: Frank had nearly gotten Joe killed. He should've vetoed Joe's plan to scout out Thatcher. He should've jumped in when Thatcher ambushed Joe. He should've —_

"_It was my idea, Dad." Joe had struggled to his feet, bracing himself against Frank's shoulder. "I wanted to do it."_

_Eyes closed, Dad breathed out. "Joseph," slow, patient, "you'll only hurt yourself even more. You're going to end up permanently in a wheelchair if you don't —"_

"_I'm going to end up crazy if I do!"_

"_That's enough," Dad snapped: patience gone, conversation over. "You're not going to cripple yourself more, Joe. Both of you, go home. Now."_

_Joe had glanced at his crutches, lying askew in the sand several feet away. Without a word, Frank had picked them up and handed them to his brother._

_But then…_

"_No," Joe had said, and limped away, down the beach._

_Frank had only looked at his father…then turned and followed Joe._

_Once around the curve of dune, Frank jogged to catch up. Joe had made it to the base of the cliffs and the rocky path leading up to the old smugglers' house atop a high overlook over the cove. Frank had followed as Joe struggled up the path to the top and the rocky outcrop at the edge of the cliff. The crumbling house had "No Trespassing" signs all over it, but neither brother cared. The place had always been a spooky place to explore and play games of cops-and-robbers._

_Breathing hard, Joe stared out over the bay, Sarah Island in the far distance._

"_Joe?" Frank had said._

_Violently, Joe had hurled one of his crutches out over the rocks, into the sea._

_Frank had watched. Joe's hands had tightened around the remaining crutch, and Frank had been certain it would follow the first…but Joe had only stood there, staring out at the water._

"_You need to be alone?" Frank had said._

_Not looking at him, Joe had nodded._

"_Okay." Frank had turned away. "I'll wait for you at the van."_

_Dad was gone when Frank got back to the van, and the sun had been setting by the time Joe limped back around the dunes, still silent, struggling on one crutch._

_That silence had continued when they'd finally gone home, continued and spread — no words, no talk, no greetings from either Dad or Aunt Gertrude, nothing, only cold, disapproving silence that had settled and spread through the house…_

_May 1978, San Francisco_

Dead, deep, and dreamless. It'd been a while since Frank had slept like that, but when he woke, it was still dark. He lay there a while, getting used to the feel of the bedroom and the sounds of the building. All the shadows and shapes were wrong, and a strong wind rattled the windows. He was alone in the room, the biggest change — he and Joe had shared their bedroom back home as long as Frank could remember, thanks to Aunt Gertrude taking the spare bedroom when she'd moved in.

But something else was wrong, something that nagged at the back of Frank's mind, something he couldn't quite get the shape of, and he knew better than to force it. Finally Frank snagged his watch off the nightstand — almost seven AM. Thinking about it, that meant it was eleven at home. He'd overslept.

He wandered into the bathroom. No hardwood here. Rough-glazed red tile, warm under his feet — he wasn't imagining it; definite warmth radiated up. The shower floor wasn't tile, but pebbled stone, rough and relaxing.

Showered, dressed, he wandered out to the common area. Kris was there, stuffing a brown lunch-bag into a backpack and favoring her left foot. "Wow. The world'll end — Frank Hardy, up after 6 AM."

Frank stood unmoving. For a moment, he hadn't seen Kris, but a pale brunette lunging with a knife — Frank breathed out, shook the horror off. Exhaustion, all it was. "You're up early."

"Registration for summer session. I need to leave way early — I don't want to be stuck at the end of the line. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Or my books."

"Thanks, Tag," Frank said, smiling.

She grabbed the ten-speed, then paused. "Frank…"

Frank waited. She'd been about to say something last night, when Frank had asked about the magic on the rooms, but Mar had stopped her. The _wards_ explanation had made sense, but…well…then again, Kris did tend to ramble on about spooky stuff unless reined in.

"If you head into the city today," Kris hesitated, "watch your back."

The same warning she'd given them in New Orleans, after he and Joe had their wallets stolen. "We're used to big cities." Hopefully that was all she meant.

Another, longer hesitation. "Just keep an eye on Joe, all right?"

Probably just paranoia. Frank had been feeling the same way the last couple months. New Orleans had been enough to make anyone paranoid, especially since he'd found out that all the spooky stuff he'd always scoffed at — had always teased her about — was real and very deadly.

"I will." Frank gave her another rueful smile. "Someone has to keep him out of trouble."

"The way Joe tells it, it's the other way around."

"Memory's the second thing to go," Frank said sadly.

That finally got her to smile. "Suuuure, big brother. I'll be back about noon — I'll treat for lunch." Kris glanced towards Mar's door. "We need to talk."

Kris was out the door before Frank could ask what she meant. The place felt empty after she left. Too quiet. Frank wasn't quite hungry, but didn't feel like dealing with this place on his own, not yet. He searched, found the coffee mugs, helped himself, then slid open the patio doors, stepped out.

The shock of cold made him gasp. It was _summer. _Wasn't California supposed to be warm? Shivering, Frank went back in, changed to a sweatshirt, then braved the deck again. Bearable.

He wasn't alone long. Joe limped out, looking haggard and exhausted.

"You look awful," Frank said.

Joe shrugged and pulled a chair away from the doors so that his back was against the bricks in the deck corner, then set his crutch beside him. Frank knew of Joe's continued nightmares and insomnia — Frank's own sleeplessness had made it impossible to miss — but if Joe wasn't going to say anything, neither would he.

He wasn't going to tell Joe about Kris's warning, not yet. Joe had enough to worry about.

"Big place." Joe nodded at the rest of the building below.

"Yeah." The deck overlooked a large grassy hill encircled by elderberry and scrubby pine trees, leading down to a railed-off cliff at the edge of the island.

Kris had taken them on a walk around the island yesterday to help them stay awake, pointing out the Coast Guard station and landmarks. Even better, a short explanation to the MPs at the peak of the island had gotten them grins and a visitor's escort into Yerba Buena Tower, a Navy officer's club with a gorgeous view of the whole Bay, though the MPs had also given them friendly warnings to stay away from Treasure Island due to the Naval base.

The military being so close…it didn't make sense. "For people who don't want government involvement, they've picked a bad place to hide." Something else for Frank to add to his mind-nagging.

…_when you start wondering who you really work for…_

"Protective cover. Hide in the place that they're least likely to be." Joe shivered as the wind picked up. "This is _summer?_"

"Yeah. A bit brisk." Frank leaned back, propped his feet up.

"We should call Dad and Aunt Gertrude and let 'em know we survived the flight."

"Be my guest."

Silence for a moment. "They can tell from the news. If the total lack of plane crashes doesn't clue them in…"

"Yeah. Right." Frank sighed it out, gazing towards the lighthouse in the distance. He had no intention of calling. If Dad wanted to know how Frank was doing, Dad could make the first move himself.

"You've got that look," Joe rasped. "You're thinking again. Every time you start thinking, we end up in trouble."

"You got that backwards. It's 'every time _you_ start thinking'. I start thinking, it gets us out of trouble."

It should've been an opening for Joe to quip back. It should've gotten Joe to grin. But now, only a blank stare. Waiting.

Where to start, that was the problem; Joe didn't need Frank's troubles on top of all the rest. Frank glanced through the patio doors to make sure Mar wasn't there. "I don't know. Something's bothering me about last night."

"I knew it. Only you can turn a simple _come-visit_ offer into _Ten Little Indians._"

"You're the one who got upset about the magic."

"They explained it, Frank. Even you said it was wards."

"_Mar_ explained it. Kris was about to say something —"

"Mar just said it _first,_ that's all._"_

"Tag said she needs to talk to us," Frank said. "She said that this morning, before you were up."

"Frank," Joe sighed it out. "Right now, I want nothing more than to stay out of trouble and just enjoy ourselves, _please._"

Frank looked away. He didn't want to argue, not with Joe, not now. Probably the cumulative effect of Dad's lectures the past couple months. It had to have been bad if Frank was looking for problems where there were none. Frank nodded towards the ground below. "Ready to try again?"

"I'm beginning to think you like beating me up," Joe said, getting to his feet.

"I do." Frank helped Joe down the patio stairs to the grass. But Frank wasn't sure he was joking. "It's the older brother thing. It keeps the annoying little brother in his place."

"You're so reassuring." Joe closed his eyes, then settled into stance, nodded.

Basic beginner's _kata_, still. Half-speed, half-force. Frank had to hold back as Joe missed blows and moved the exact wrong way. Then, as usual, a little into the sparring, Joe started to tremble, jaw clenched, biting his lip.

Frank sped up; he had to push. He had to keep after Joe. He had to get Joe able to defend himself. Frank wasn't about to have anything like New Orleans on his head ever again.

Then Joe moved the wrong way _again_, and Frank swept his legs out from under him.

This time, though, Joe managed to fall correctly, tucking his shoulder under and rolling. But he didn't get up, panting into the grass. "Ow. Definitely not sand."

Frank gave him a hand up. "You're too soft. I've been way too easy on you —"

"Hold," said Mar, from the deck above.

Both brothers froze.

In sweats and barefoot, Mar came down the stairs. "Joe, did you warm up? I didn't think so. That's part of the problem. Here." She helped Joe to the lower rail. "Stretch out. Calf and heel stretches." She worked with him a few minutes to show him the exact sequence to use, then turned.

Frank stood stiffly, waiting for the lecture. His fault, again. Yet another shout-down, yet another beat-down.

"It's not doing you any good to spar with Joe," Mar said, her usual calm quiet. "Let's see how much you've lost. Guard."

Then she attacked.

Still the beginner's _kata, _but full speed, shifting up to yellow belt, then green, then brown. Then Mar deviated from the patterns into full sparring, forcing Frank to react instinctively, no time to think or remember sequence. She got through his guard over and over, and the force of her touches increased, annoying, swatting, poking —

Enough. Frank moved into attack, full force and full speed, not holding anything back. But Mar was never where he'd thought she'd be, his blows never got through, and she was grinning. That did it. Snarling, wanting to wipe that smile off her face, Frank lunged — and she swept his feet out from under him.

He had enough control to roll with the fall and ended on his back, blinking sweat out of his eyes.

"Always a mistake to get angry," Mar said calmly. "Your form's gotten sloppy. Didn't the Y continue classes? There was another instructor."

"He raised the fees. Dad couldn't afford it." It hurt to admit that. They weren't poor, but Dad becoming a private investigator had meant that the family sometimes had what Dad euphemistically called "cash-flow issues" and Aunt Gertrude flat-out called "being broke".

"Okay." Mar helped Frank up. "Still, that was part of first-_dan_ black belt, so you weren't doing too badly. If you want to continue karate, I teach in the city. You're welcome there. If you're still up for it after Drake, that is."

Frank hadn't expected that, not at all. "Mar, I can't afford your fees."

"So? I need an assistant. You'll be good practice for my beginners." Smiling, Mar patted his shoulder. "Go walk until you're cooled down. Joe…"

Curious, Frank watched. Mar corrected Joe's stance, balance, and positioning, but instead of going into _kata_, she had Joe resist her push, then punch out into her hands, as if testing his strength. Then, only then, Mar moved into beginner's drill, but insisted that Joe attack. When Joe couldn't manage that, couldn't follow her out, she halted, let him get re-settled, then shifted to the attack herself for Joe to stand and defend, halting him often to correct his form. But even then…

She didn't sweep Joe's feet out, didn't dump him, only backed off. "Enough."

Gulping air, Joe sank to his knees.

Mar looked up towards the deck. "See what you need to?"

Frank startled. Joshua Thomas leaned on the deck railing; he was in his usual _dashiki_ and stone-dyed teal jeans, with rainbow fimo beads threaded into his short dreadlocks. He'd assumed leadership of the Blades after the NOLA incident — he was Kris's comrade-in-arms and one of the reasons Frank and Joe had survived New Orleans.

Grinning, Joshua came down the stairs. "Hey, guys. You're letting Mama Hawk beat the crap out of you already? Brave _and_ suicidal, I like that." He grasped Frank's hand in both of his. "Handsome, if I'd known you could give Mar a workout, I'd've tossed you at those SOBs and let you rip heads off." Before Frank could respond, Joshua knelt, his hands on Joe's shoulders. "And you, _chè,_ it's good to see you moving like that. We were scared to death you'd be crippled — and yeah, Mar, definitely. Wonderfully so. I love being proved right."

"If you want to go on," Mar said to Joe, "you can, but I wouldn't recommend it. You're just setting yourself up for failure."

…_he's not supposed to stress the muscles, he has to take it easy…_

Joe bowed his head. "I understand."

Frank opened his mouth to protest. Having come all this way, only for Joe to get knocked out before he even started…

"Hey." Joshua shook Joe's shoulders. "What's that all about? Look at me, _chè._ Don't make me pull out the drill sergeant. It's too good a day and you're not the idiots on Council."

"Just tired. I'll get over it." Joe snagged his crutch, pushed himself up, staggered up the stairs.

Yet another failure. Yet more pain. "Maybe," Frank said, edged, "it was hearing you tell him he can't be in the Blades."

Joshua looked at Mar. "Did I miss something?"

"I have no idea," Mar said. "What are you talking about, Frank?"

Joe turned on the stairs. "You just said I couldn't. That you didn't recommend it."

"For karate," Mar said. "Karate's move-intensive, you know that."

"Y'know, idiot," Joshua said to Joe, "if you're thinking that just because you can't do karate means you can't be a Blade, I'm going to come up there and dump you in the shower. Set to cold. With ice."

… this_ is your idea of taking care of your brother?_…

Frank shoved in front of Joshua, blocking him from the stairs. "Lay a hand on him," Frank snarled, "and you'll see who gets dumped."

Silence.

Slowly, deliberately, Joshua crossed his arms and stared Frank down. "Vicious this morning, aren't we? Go ahead. Try it. Let's see who hands who their ass."

Caught, challenged, Frank stood unmoving. He hadn't meant to escalate it like that. Joshua had only sounded like his usual mock-threat, but something had snarled up, out of Frank's control…

"Good," Joshua said, when Frank didn't move, "you still have some brains. But suddenly I don't have time or inclination to deal with you." He started up the stairs, but suddenly turned and pushed Joe against the stair railing, "As for _you,_ it's going to be my sadistic pleasure to introduce you to Noah Saalburg next week, and I'll let him run _both _of you to ground."

"You talked him into it?" Mar said.

"Finally, yeah." Joshua glared at Joe. "He had both his legs blown off at the knee by a tunnel mine in 'Nam. He's one of our best people in NYC. You wanna try the _oh-poor-me_ act with him,good luck. I'll be there to watch the show, front and center. If you're still here, that is." With that, Joshua was up the stairs and gone.

Silence.

Joe looked stunned. Frank stood there. His entire center had dropped out from under him, as if the ground was shifting and he was fighting to stay balanced…

"Well," Mar said, "ticking off the Blade commander your first day here. That's a first. Most folks don't start with us quite that spectacularly. So you're either going to flame out real quick, or you're going to turn us all upside down." She sighed. "Welcome to Bay Area, boys."


	7. Commander

"You're going through with this."

Joshua was learning that there were many things he hated about being in charge. The actual command part, no problem. He knew he was good at that, one of the things that'd helped his unit survive the jungles of 'Nam. No, it was the rest of the job: the paperwork, the meetings, soothing Council, figuring out the damned budget…

"_You're actually going through with this!"_

…dealing with Harold Downs.

Glaring down into Joshua's face, the man leaned over the desk on fisted hands: mid-fifties, hard-muscled, crew-cut, ice-blue eyes, every inch proclaimed _former Marine._ Joshua kept his body relaxed in the leather chair as he stared back as calmly as he could manage. It wasn't easy.

"A mundane," Downs growled. "In the Blades. With _their_ father. Joshua Thomas, you've crossed every single line we have!"

Joshua clamped down on his temper. "If it wasn't for them, Karma would be dead. Or worse." Blowing up would only give Downs more ammunition; Joshua had learned that the hard way. Downs had thought to command the Blades when Mar stepped down. Losing it to Joshua — free-spirited, Black, gay, _young_ Joshua — well. Never mind that Joshua had been part of the Army's Special Ops guerrilla units in 'Nam, and a highly commended sergeant at that.

"Those spoiled brats brought it on themselves," Downs said. "Sneaking out to hook up with their little sex-toy."

Joshua clenched his jaw shut. He would not be baited. Downs didn't know the truth of the matter, but Joshua wasn't about to enlighten him; it wouldn't help.

Granted, Joshua's idea of "enlightenment" would've been a swift punch to Downs's gut for that slur on Kris, but still…

"That still doesn't excuse you bringing in a _mundane, _Thomas_._ Are you _trying_ to get us killed?"

"He's the one that took Thatcher down."

"Yeah," Downs sneered. "I heard what you and Hawk said. I also heard what you didn't say. Do you even care what their daddy does?"

"He's a private detective," Joshua kept his voice bored, "who works with the government from time to time."

"Military intelligence," Downs grated out. "CIA. _Those_ programs. You've endangered the whole Center by bringing them here!"

"I was Special Ops," Joshua cut him off, "and you came from 'those programs', too. I could point to any number of us who work with Uncle Sam."

"_They_ are on our side!"

"Enough," Joshua snapped. "You're starting to repeat yourself, darlin', and frankly, it's boring me."

Oh, the look on Downs's face. But Joshua didn't dare take time to savor it.

"They're here," Joshua said. "Nothing you say or do is going to change that. This is my command, Harold. Not yours. We owe them this chance."

"The Blades are not a reward," Downs growled. "They're a _responsibility."_

With that, he was gone, shutting the door with a firm click behind him.

With a curse, Joshua shoved his chair back and stood, leaning against the windowsill and staring out towards the lighthouse in the distance. He hadn't wanted this, not this soon, not this way, and he whole-heartedly wished he could convince Mar to take it back. The mess in New Orleans hadn't been her fault. They'd all been blindsided by a pair of determined mage-Gifted SOBs who'd gotten past their defenses, insinuated themselves in, and nearly brought them all down.

But that was life. Change, and never on your terms.

Worse — Downs was right.

Too much work, too few hands: that was the problem. Right now, the entire city seemed to be going insane. The cult mass suicide last week: that pathetic farm-commune with all those family bodies out in Milpitas had driven even Harold Downs to tears. Religious nut-jobs of all stripes were coming out of the woodwork. Some of the nastier occult paths had started making their presence felt among the city's active club scene, especially in the gay clubs, already at boiling point over the Hillsborough killing. Gang wars rumored to be using dark witchcraft and sham voodoo. Unexplained arsons. Worse, street people were missing — and beyond the Blades' ability to locate.

The door opened behind him. Joshua didn't even startle. Mar's presence was too familiar.

"I gave the Hardys their Muni passes and shoved them out to go exploring," Mar said. "I made Joe see Trevor before they left — Trev says there was too much damage and not enough follow-up. Whatever Thatcher hit Joe's spine with didn't help."

"That father of theirs," Joshua said, disgusted. "If he'd let our Boston people help…" They didn't dare take Fenton Hardy into confidence, either; Downs had hit the truth, dead-on. Fenton was too well-connected to certain parts of the federal government for them to trust his silence. Because of that, Joshua had carefully edited the explanation he'd given Fenton in New Orleans. Joshua had left out all mention of magic and psychic Gifts, keeping it as mundane as he could and still be the truth.

It was a hotly debated risk, exposing the Association to his sons, though the debate was taking place after the point was long past moot.

Yeah. The man's sons. The _other_ problem.

"We don't know that," Mar said. "Trev did say if we keep after Joe to stretch and move, it'd improve, but not completely. Trev'll discuss it with Drake."

"Damn. I was hoping." Joshua could hear certain folks on Council now. He'd stuck his neck out too far, he'd taken too big a risk, and now he'd recruited a cripple along with a _mundane_, spies, moles…

And Frank had _dared _get in his face?

"We all were. So now we deal with reality." Mar leaned against the wall. "You owe them an apology."

Joshua looked at her.

"Jumping down their throats like that." Mar shook her head. "It was an understandable assumption on their part. You haven't heard Fenton's calls — he does not want me encouraging Joe in his 'delusion'. He's been pushing Joe to get out of anything to do with crime work." Mar sighed. "Problem is that Joe's other love is music. He was a good singer, and…well…you've heard him speak."

"Yeah," Joshua said.

"He wasn't pulling any _oh-poor-me_ act. He ran _kata_ with Frank, then with me, and he didn't complain once." Mar fell silent for a moment, then, quieter, "It's Frank that worries me."

"Gah." Joshua collapsed back against the desk. "Mar, I don't want this job. I don't. I'm not suited for this. That just proved it. I can't even handle a simple _miscommunication_ without going off the deep-end."

"Now who's pulling _oh-poor-me?_"

"I'm not." Joshua sighed. "It's reality. All the problems, and I lost all perspective and dumped it on their heads."

"Frank did provoke it," Mar reminded him. "And as long as you don't go thinking that you're always right, and as long as you remember that even commanders have to admit their mistakes, you'll be fine."

"Or I convince you to take it back."

"That won't work. And we both know why."

Joshua said nothing. She was too right, damn her. The NOLA fallout had been too big — Karma's manager, Cy Goldberg, wasn't Association, wasn't even Gifted, but three band members of _his _Karma had been grabbed right under Mar's nose, and they'd all found out how loud and obnoxious Cy could get. They hadn't made it public that one of the culprits had gotten inside; no one wanted _that_ potential fallout. Vão and Rafe knew, but they also knew to keep their mouths shut — and knew the full story.

Mar even had to be careful in advising Joshua. He had to establish _his_ authority, not be the mouthpiece of the former commander.

There wasn't anyone else suited to take over. At least, no one else Joshua trusted to take over. He was the only one with enough command experience among the younger Blades. Drake, maybe, but he was needed right where he was and knew it. The other older Blades…no. Not with the way things were now.

"Advice?" Mar said.

"Mar, darlin', anything you can offer to get me out of this trap…" Joshua saw the look on her face, stopped, breathed out. "Sorry. Yes. Advice, _please._"

"Shove Frank and Joe into harness a bit. Who's on Wings today?"

Joshua glanced at the desk. "Kris — she asked, specifically. She's the only Blade. Ask Ruth about the others. I know Jamie is. She's been chattering about the art project she's planning."

"Oh, good. _Definitely_ send Frank and Joe with Kris, then."

Joshua lifted an eyebrow.

Mar grinned. "You didn't see Jamie drooling over Joe last night when I brought 'em in. I don't think he caught it, but half the commons was grinning behind his back."

"Jesus wept, Mar," Joshua said, but he was grinning, too. "You're evil."

She patted his shoulder. "You're welcome, dear. It'll do Kris good, too — she needs her 'big brothers' to keep her on her toes."

"Why, darlin', I do believe you're playing matchmaker."

Mar snorted. "You know better — she's their little tagalong, and that's that. And Vão and Rafe are way too set. I'm just worried someone'll get hurt, if they don't back off on the hunt."

Another thing to keep track of. Joshua sighed. Nothing was ever simple.

"Let it resolve itself. You're Blade commander, not Dear Abby." Mar eyed him critically. "You should go talk to Becca."

"I'm fine." Joshua sighed again. Strength didn't involve counselors or psychiatrists. He'd work it out, sooner or later. "Just tired. Trapped. Wanting to go take a long swim under Golden Gate and dodge sharks and jumpers, for a change."

"I think I'm going to insist."

Joshua raised his head. "With respect, Mar, I am commander."

"With respect, _Joshua_, I still rank you." Her voice softened. "Don't make me order you. I'll get Eli to back me, if I have to. NOLA splattered you, too."

Joshua blew out another breath. "Yes, Mama Hawk. I'll be good."

"Watch it, boy, or I'll tell Drake you've been scrawling his number in the Outlook's restrooms again."

"Evil _and_ vicious. I'll have to remember that tactic."

"You don't need my tactics," Mar said. "You're strong, Josh. You'll adapt. But…it's okay to be weak, too. Don't be scared to admit it. Remember that. Please."


	8. Stuck in the Middle

Kris paused at the crest of the hill. Her foot throbbed; the short bike ride from the Muni stop had been painful. The view was spectacular — a clear day for once, and a brisk wind off the Bay shattered the water into blinding light-sparkles. She kicked the bike into a slow coast down the curve, slewed into the gravel, then hefted the bike up and through the doors.

Registration had been a trial. She hadn't been able to keep her mind on the paperwork and schedules. Something was up with the younger kids at Wings, two of them in particular. Yesterday, Kris had caught sight of odd bruises, but her gentle questions had only been met with fear and silence.

In itself, sadly, not too odd for any of the Wings' kids, who often were running from abuse and who met all adults with suspicion, at first. But Kris was the same age as the older ones; they tended to see her as one of them. Little Rita and Emelio were regular drop-ins; their mother was a hooker, and they'd learned to stay away when she was working. Emelio had been bragging about a "vacation" his mom had scored, a fun trip to one of the local farms. They'd come back from that…and two shy children had become frightened rabbits.

Bide her time. That was all Kris could do for now. Stay patient, stay open and unthreatening, and wait for them to decide to trust her. Until they told her what was going on, she couldn't act.

Well, not act _directly_.

Gods, let this turn out to be nothing. Right now, she wasn't sure how'd she'd handle it, especially with Frank and Joe coming aboard. Her big brothers would enjoy Wings, definitely; she knew they would. Maybe if she brought them in…

Breathing out the worry, Kris paused in the entryway of the Center, letting the sounds and feel of the old building sink in and wrap around her: restful, calm, at peace. Over the years, the ancient brick factory had survived fire and earthquake and was now mostly converted into living spaces. Life in the Center tended to be calm and unhurried, but Kris was usually too busy making sure it stayed that way to enjoy it.

"Here."

Kris startled. Samuel took the bike from her and hefted it over his head. "Sam, you don't need to do that."

"My door has your blood on it, so yes, I do need to." Samuel lifted his chin at her aching foot. He was a middle-aged Hispanic man, round-faced and easy-grinned._ "Mierda, acepta la ayuda graciosamente para un cambio, ¿okay?"_

_Just accept help gracefully for a change._ Kris sighed.

"Kris!" Grinning down at her, Joshua leaned over the railing.

She limped up the spiral stairs. "You're out early. I thought Council was holding you hostage today."

"Ransom paid. They got all their bloodsucking done." Joshua moved aside to let Samuel pass. "Just the usual whining and moaning."

Kris glanced uneasily down at the commons. Hopefully no one had overheard that.

"C'mon. We need to talk. _I _need to talk." Joshua gestured her ahead of him. "Godzilla's coming out tonight, by the way."

"Sushi?" Kris said hopefully. Godzilla was a chunky Japanese man with an obsession for monster films, as well as being _sous _chef at a hot up-and-coming Japanese-fusion restaurant. He was also Joshua's steady lover, serious enough that Joshua had moved out of Center and bought a house with him in the Castro.

Samuel had been talking to someone past the archway leading to her and Mar's suite. Grinning, Samuel waved at that someone, then ducked past Joshua and Kris.

"For real." Joshua high-fived Samuel as he passed. "Godz called just before you got in. He tripped the Wharf fantastic for the fish, fresh today. You might want to call Vão — if he hears Godz did sushi and you didn't invite him, I'm not responsible for the resulting bloodshed."

"Invite me over for what?"

The lead singer for Karma, Vão Carvalo, was sprawled over the big couch. He looked weary, black hair tangled in his eyes; he'd been coming over almost every day since returning from New Orleans. He pushed himself up and pulled Kris into a hug, his eyes closed, chin on her head. Out here, where anyone could see and gossip about — Kris resisted the pull. Vão sighed, let go.

"Godzilla's doing sushi for us tonight," Joshua said.

"Oh. No, thanks. I don't want to run into Joe." Vão looked away. "Not yet, anyway. Can we take this private? I need to talk."

Kris and Joshua exchanged looks. "That was my line, _chè,_" Joshua said. "But you can horn in on our chat, if you don't mind me being there. If you need me gone, I'll clear out."

Vão shrugged.

"C'mon, take it back." Kris shoved open the door to her rooms. She'd taken over the hallway, converting two of the bedrooms to her own living- and work-space. The front part was filled with warmth and color, stained-glass mobiles, books and records. Rainbow-colored beanbags were scattered through the room, with a beaten-up couch covered in bright satiny pillows and hand-crocheted throws. A metal desk salvaged from the SFSU student dumpsters stood against the near wall, a small dorm-fridge tucked under it. An archway led back to her bedroom and ritual spaces.

From the hall door back, the whole space was warded heavily: mage-armor built up over time and sunk into the building's electric system. Nothing crossed the hall door without her knowing about it, and if she triggered certain other things, nothing crossed the hall door, _period._

Vão pulled a soda from the fridge, then sunk into the couch with a sigh. "I've got to get you two out to my place to do wards. Rafe can't manage anything like this." Rafe Hollen was Karma's lead guitarist, and the other…hopeful…third of whatever was going on between him, Vão, and Kris.

"Hopeful" being the key phrase. Kris wasn't sure about taking it all the way to "certain", not yet. Not for lack of trying on Vão and Rafe's part, anyway.

For that matter, she wasn't sure why they wanted boyfriend-girlfriend stuff with her. Then again, it wasn't like their standards were very high. She'd seen the groupies that hung around the band.

"Josh, we have to." Kris sat down on a beanbag and pulled off her sneaker to re-tape her foot. "All three of them."

"_Have_ to?" Vão said, then, when Joshua hesitated, "Don't even try to lie, Josh. I can read both of you too well."

Joshua gave Kris a hard stare. "Darlin', you really need to learn about keepin' your mouth shut."

It'd been a long argument between her, Joshua, and Mar: whether to tell Karma and the Hardys about what had been found at NOLA. Kris had hated the final decision, but had promised to not tell. Forcing Joshua to reveal his hand, though…that didn't break the promise. Mostly.

Joshua stared at the ceiling, then sighed. "You know what she can do."

Vão said nothing.

"Again," Joshua said, "before we left NOLA. We both went out. We figured out why Thatcher went after you."

"I'm reusable." Barely audible. "I figured that much."

"That, too," Joshua said gently. "But worse. It was still active, _chè._"

"Still?" Vão's voice peaked, cracked. "_Still?_" He broke off, eyes squeezed shut.

"We aren't sure," Kris said. The fear and tension radiating from Vão were near unbearable, even through her shields. "But we got attacked by something. It felt like him."

"We destroyed what Thatcher had going down," Joshua said, with another hard glare at Kris. "That should've taken care of it."

"Should have," Vão breathed. "Josh — please, _please_, get someone in our bodyguards. Anyone. Even if it's Downs. Rafe'll control Cy into oblivion, if he has to."

Alarmed, Kris straightened. "Something's happened?"

"Not yet, but we're all expecting it. And Cy won't listen to anything we say. Not even Nate, and that's _really_ pissing me off."

Nate was Nathaniel Abel, Karma's keyboardist. Thatcher had burned Nate's Gift out, before Joe had gotten caught; Nate still being sane was a miracle. He had enough use of his hands to play music, though Nate was now in a wheelchair and that looked to be permanent.

"There's a couple thousand miles between us and New Orleans," Joshua said. "That's why I didn't want to say anything." Quieter, "The SOB doesn't need your fear giving him power, _chè."_

"So we're just _paranoid_."

"I didn't say that."

"Cy says he's not having anything more to do with you guys. That you caused the problem to start with." Vão's hands tightened on the cushion. "I don't know how to tell Rafe this. I don't. And Nate…god."

"You're not paranoid._"_ Kris sat down next to him, took his hand in hers. Part of her wanted to pull him into her own hug. Another part quailed at the thought, scared of how he'd take it. She wasn't ready for anything more, but Vão and Rafe never seemed to stop trying. "You're recovering. Cut yourself a break." She looked away. "I wish I could tell you it'll all go away someday."

"I know," Vão whispered.

"You need to trust me more," Joshua said. "It's already handled." Vão looked up, and Joshua sighed. "You really think I'd leave you guys in the cold like that? I got the NYC crew in on your personal bodyguards. All on the sly, and I broke so many rules doing it that I'll be in karmic payback for millennia."

"How did you pull _that_ off?"

"Sorry, darlin', I plead the Fifth. _Period."_

"I am going to buy you a ton of Anchor Steam," Vão said fervently. "A lifetime supply. I owe you, Josh. Thank God. Thank _God._"

"Tell Rafe _after_ they're introduced, okay?" Kris said to Vão. "That way, he doesn't have to pretend like he doesn't know anything."

Now grinning, Vão reached for his soda bottle. "I was all set to beg you to fake a wedding, just so I could bring you along. Or _you,_ Josh. I could've faked gay for a few months."

"Damn, there goes my shot," Joshua said sadly. But then he looked thoughtful. "Y'know, you don't have to tell Rafe. Tell him I refused to do it unless he proposed to me."

Vão choked on a mouthful of soda, then couldn't stop laughing, then couldn't breathe. Kris sighed — just Joshua's normal flirt-teasing, so why Vão thought it was funny was beyond her — but then Joshua joined in, and every time he and Vão caught each other's eye, it set them off again.

Finally, Joshua got some control back. He snagged Vão's hand in a brother-shake. _"Chè,_ you have no idea how good it is to hear youlaugh. You're the other one we've been scared to death about."

"Frank's the one that scares me. I wish I could tell you why." Worse, Joe, though Kris said nothing. He'd always had such an easy smile and a light heart — he was now so quiet, somber, serious. It wasn't fair.

"That's what I needed to talk to you about," Joshua said. "Take Frank and Joe to Wings today. It'll be good to push them into harness a little."

"I don't know," Kris said slowly. She'd had the same idea, but… "Something's up. More than that pimp, I mean. I don't want them in the middle of a situation."

"I don't want them to back you up. I'm getting devious, my fine feathered Hawk. According to my sources, Jamie was one step shy of pouncing on Joe when they came in last night."

"Oh lord. You are _not…"_

Vão started laughing again, and Joshua grinned so hard his head looked like it'd split. "Don't let Frank in on it," Joshua said. "I want to see if Jamie drags them both in."

"You, sir, are totally, completely, and irredeemably evil," Kris said.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Joshua said.

"When she went after Rafe…"Vão cracked up. "Oh God. He still hasn't lived it down."

"Rafe?" Joshua said. "_The SFSU College of Art_ still hasn't lived it down. Though it did get her that NEA grant."

"They were terrified _not_ to give it to her," Kris said.

"Exactly, partner, exactly." Joshua sprawled back in the beanbag. "Jesus, do either of you know how long it's been since I've laughed like this? Since I've just been able to sit down and not get jumped for any number of reasons?"

"If you're asking me to jump you," Vão said, "forget it."

Joshua laughed. "Asking me to marry you to total rejection, five minutes. That's a new record, darlin'. You _are_ better."

"I'm getting there," Vão said.

"Council was that bad?" Kris said.

"Worse. All on your 'big brothers.'" Joshua sighed. "If it was just Joe, they'd've gotten over it. If their daddy wasn't who he is, they might have been okay with Frank. But Frank being mundane with that father of theirs, it's constant uproar."

"Great," Kris said. Something else to worry about.

"And you know Downs," Joshua said.

Harold Downs was a long-time Blade, an Elder on Council, and a refugee from certain Black Ops programs, the ones the US government never admitted to. Having Frank — mundane, with a fed-connected father — here in the Center…

No, Downs would never accept that.

"A heads-up," Joshua said. "Those two have enough to deal with. If you can help with the interference-running…"

As if she didn't have enough to deal with, either. Kris sighed again. "I'll try."

"Downs gets in either of their faces," Vão said, "and I'll pay for front row seats for _that_ show. Don't underestimate either of them, either of you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Joshua said.

"Have you told them?" Vão had gone back to staring at the floor.

Kris and Joshua looked at each other, Kris scowling.

"No," Joshua said. "And we're not going to. Don't give me that face, partner. And no wigglin' around it. That's _final._ Joe could fuel that SOB with way too much fear."

"Like I can't?" Vão said.

That was the sticking point. Joe wasn't just mage-Gifted; he was also an amp, someone able to boost other Gifts — and a strong one. At NOLA, half-dead, barely conscious, Joe's amp had been the sole reason they'd survived the magic equivalent of a nuke at ground zero. If Thatcher was still out there, they did _not_ want that combo fueling him, nor to give said spirit any of Joe's attention or fear, not while he was untrained and vulnerable. Fear was potent power in blood-magic. Attention, energy, fear, all led up to a bright flashing _Good-Eats-Here _sign in the Otherworld.

Kris knew the reasoning, but didn't like it. It was lying. Lying, to her big brothers. "If Thatcher is out there," she said, with heat, "keeping quiet means he can sneak-attack. They won't be ready. Forewarned is —"

"— is forearmed," Joshua finished for her. "You've said, I've said. I'm pullin' rank, darlin', and my decision holds. End argument."

Vão leaned forward. "Whatever Joe threw at me there. It ramped my 'path up enough to break Thatcher's shields."

Kris glanced at Joshua. They didn't want Joe's amp becoming common knowledge. It was a much-desired commodity with the Feds…and with certain other not-so-above-board groups.

Vão's gaze moved back and forth between them, then, slowly, Vão nodded.

"Whatever you think you know," Joshua said, "keep it quiet, Vão. And you're not to tell 'em, either."

"He's a weapon, Josh. You're not one to hold back."

"That argument works both ways."Joshua pushed to his feet. "On that note, I have to scoot. I told Godz I'd help him drag all his gizmos and dead fish up here. Kris, tell your big brothers I need to talk to them, if they get back before I do. And Vão," Joshua snagged Vão's hand again, "you're doing good. You'll get there. You will." Quieter, "I won't let anything happen to you or the others, _chè_. I swear it."

"I know." But Vão was looking at Kris.

She didn't need to say anything. She'd made that same promise to him already.

There was silence after Joshua left. Vão was grinning again. "I feel almost obligated to warn those two about Jamie. I really do."

"Don't," Kris said. "They both have a rep, back home. I call it karma."

"I said 'almost'. Just like I didn't warn Rafe." Vão hesitated. "Kris…_caro…_about your big brothers. You have to tell them."

"You heard Josh. I promised."

"What's more important? Promises…or the truth?"

Silence.

Vão sighed, pushed to his feet. "I promised Papa I'd visit, and it's an hour to Milpitas. The whole Gate thing's got cops all over the place down there. But Kris —" He turned, catching her off guard; she ran into him.

He was so tightly shielded, she couldn't read anything off him. But there was expression there, deep in his dark eyes, just a hint of something that made her shiver.

"It's good to hear _you_ laugh." Vão hesitated, kissed her forehead, then tilted her chin up to meet her mouth.

At first she resisted, then forced herself to calm down; his kiss was serious, needy, hungry. Kris breathed into it, but couldn't relax as he pressed against her, as his hands slid down her arms, then up again to caress her face, neck, shoulders.

Finally Vão pulled away. Kris rested her head against his chest. He was warm, very warm. She couldn't catch her breath; she felt shaky, liquid.

"I was wrong," Vão murmured into her hair. "You do know how to play." He breathed out a laugh, caressing her chin and cheek. "I'm not asking for a broken arm, am I?"

She shook her head.

"Let's continue this conversation." When she didn't answer, Vão tilted her head up again to meet her eyes. Invitation, hope edged with longing, the need for comfort. "Please?"

Shaken, scared of what she'd started, Kris pulled away. Too much, too soon, too fast. It was escalating beyond what she could handle. She'd decided to try the kiss, that was all…

"Okay," Vão sighed. "I can wait." He kissed her forehead again. "In your own time, _caro._ In your own time."


	9. Nowhere Man

It was nothing like Boston, nothing like New York, nothing like any other city Joe had ever been in, up to and including New Orleans.

Mar had to make Joe eat following Joshua's blow-up, but Joe only picked at the Cheerios. First the magic on their rooms, then the continued nightmares last night, now Joshua; Joe's stomach rolled. He didn't want to go back to Bayport, not now, not ever.

He barely paid attention to the doctor, Trevor, a Black man who looked more like a linebacker than a doctor. Trevor had scowled over Joe's legs and back before pulling Frank and Mar aside for a low-voiced conference. Afterwards, Mar handed both Frank and Joe month-passes to the public transport, bullied them out the door, pointed them towards the stop, and ordered them to "get lost on the Muni" — though she suggested a few specific lines to take: the Embarcadero out to the Wharf, the 28 to Golden Gate Bridge, the N-Judah out to the Pacific Ocean. But when their Muni hit the Embarcadero Center Station, colorful tents in the plaza caught Joe's eye.

Getting off the transport was a relief. Too many people to keep an eye on, not that the plaza was any better. But Joe caught Frank watching the nearby people, with a steady, studying gaze at anyone that got too close, and Joe relaxed, just a little. Frank had his back. They had each other covered.

The tents turned out to be an art fair: globes of stained glass swinging on curled copper tubing, blue and purple handwoven scarves waving in the breeze from the Bay, kites, windsocks, and hand-sewn banners. Watercolors both modern and classic. Red and gold ceramic plates glowed in the morning sun; crystal sun-catchers splattered another booth in rainbows, and a huge forged-metal dinosaur loomed over another tent selling steel flowers. Best of all, a bright rainbow-striped tent sold hand-carved dulcimers, lap-harps, and guitars.

Joe touched the golden wood, plucked a guitar string: the sound was mellow and rich.

"You play, man?" the tent's proprietor said, a bearded man in faded tie-dyes. With gnarled, callused hands, he leaned over and strummed a glissando on one of the harps. The notes shimmered through the air.

Joe stood there, his hand clenched on the crutch. His left hand, the shattered hand that couldn't even manage simple guitar chords.

Shaking his head, he limped away.

Silent, he followed Frank through the rest of the fair. They turned down another row which opened onto a sunny cobbled plaza dominated by a massive stone fountain of rigid, interlocking angles. Chanting religious protesters with hand-made picket signs grouped in the center of the plaza; their signs exhorted people to accept "Jesus' Blood", with extensive, small-print quotes from the Last Supper.

"People's Gate," Frank said. "Milpitas is just south of here. I didn't think they'd still be around."

That had hit the news just before they'd left Bayport: a cult that had driven its members to mass suicide and murdered a US Senator and his entourage visiting the cult's communal farm. Joe hadn't realized that People's Gate was so close. "I guess people really do believe that stuff."

Frank sighed. "What a world."

From the tents, harp music: the hippy lutenist, most likely. A simple rendition of "Scarborough Faire", sung by a rough voice. It balanced the clear shimmer of the harp, and Joe stood, listening.

No. Music was gone. It'd only been wishful thinking. A daydream, even before. He had to accept that.

"Look." Frank nudged him. "The Port of San Francisco." The iconic white clock-tower was right across the street, and the festival looked as if it continued over there, as well. He glanced towards the protesters, then started towards the Port. "C'mon."

The other tents turned out to be a farmer's market, thick with the aroma of fresh basil, sun-warmed tomatoes, and early peaches, and Joe inhaled deeply, relaxing. Music rang out from somewhere, bouncy, odd-sounding rhythms and drumming — curious, Joe followed the sound without waiting to see if Frank was with him. Joe fumbled past a group of rainbow-dyed stalls and into a crowd gathered around…

Fascinated, Joe stopped, unable to process exactly what he was seeing.

An energetic, thin black man in a bright red Hawaiian shirt and floppy button-covered hat pounded on…

…plastic tubs?

Frank was nudging him. "You coming?" Frank said.

"I want to listen," Joe said, staring at the drummer. The man was surrounded in…well…junk. Tin cans. Metal dish racks. Paint cans. Garbage cans, plastic and metal, both cans and lids. Large metal spoons and tiny dessert forks, screwdrivers, hammers. Hub caps.

Joe lost track of how long he stood there listening, eyes closed, nodding in time. The groove was infectious, driving, surprising, familiar '60s pop ringing out of chiseled hubcaps before twisting into new beats and total chaotic funk. Joe wanted to sing, he wanted to jump in and jam, but…no. Not with how he sounded now. It'd only attract attention he didn't want.

People already stared at the limping cripple with the twisted hand and obvious rope-scars around his neck; Joe was too aware of that. One man's glance turned into a studying gaze and half-smile, just how Thatcher had looked — at that, Joe turned away, clenched around the jump of fear.

Frank wasn't with him.

Fighting sudden panic, Joe swiveled around. Frank was talking with a pretty brunette at a nearby green-striped tent and obviously watching Joe. The tent was piled with yellow, white, and red rounds of cheese, small tubs of herbed spreads, and sample trays laden with cheese-cubes and toothpicks.

Just a girl. Figured. Joe had panicked over nothing.

By now, his feet, legs, and lower back were now complaining loudly; with a regretful look at the junk-drummer, Joe limped over. "I need to sit," he said to Frank, "or get off this concrete."

"You're always causing trouble." Frank nodded down the way. Beyond the port building was a wide, grassy park on the Bay shore, facing the Bay Bridge. "Can you manage that far?"

Clenching his jaw, Joe nodded. With a smile at the pretty brunette, Frank snagged up a plastic bag emblazoned with a yellow smiley face — to Joe's surprise, Frank didn't shove it at Joe to carry as he usually did. A little ways from the market, they passed a black woman sitting on the curb, painted cards spread in front of her. Wrapped in layers of gold and brown, she looked like a fortune-teller: just a street hustler.

A gust of wind scattered the cards down the sidewalk as she made a futile grab. Frank ran them down, caught them for her, brought them back.

"Thanks." The woman grinned as Frank handed the cards to her. Her eyes were filmed-over with cataracts. "Even the wind's fighting me today."

Hanging back, Joe waited for Frank to finish his good deed, then limped on, sank gratefully to the grass and stretched out. The grass was both scratchy with winter's die-off and soft with new growth; the wind off the Bay was ferocious, but the warm sun overhead made up for it. Frank tossed Joe a peach from the bag, then split a wedge of cheese in two — it smelled of goat and was laced with basil — and passed Joe a can of Coke.

"You okay?" Frank said.

"Just overwhelmed." The safest response: Frank seemed to accept it. Frank didn't care for most modern music — he'd always left whenever Joe had sung back home. He'd never understand what Joe had lost, ever.

Joe bit into the peach; sweet juice rushed into his mouth, catching him by surprise. This early in the season, he'd expected it to be rock-hard, but it was fuzzy-soft, tasting of sun and wind along with the sweet, and the cheese had a grassy tang to it. The Coke tasted chemical and fake in comparison.

"The girl at the booth said the only restaurants this end are expensive ones," Frank went on. "'Regular overpriced tourist junk that way,' was how she put it. Or to go to something called Boudin's if we want the only decent place on the Wharf."

"That's what I like about this place," Joe said. "They're so subtle."

"We can go back and guilt-trip Kris into lunch. She promised, this morning."

And possibly run into Joshua again. Joe wasn't ready for that. "I vote for the overpriced tourist stuff. We need stories to horrify Aunt Gertrude with. Otherwise Dad'll think we're enjoying ourselves."

On the way back to the Muni stop, they passed the fortune-teller again. Caught by the bright colors on the pavement in front of her, Joe slowed — not Tarot cards at all, but tiny watercolor paintings: glowing jewels of color with intersecting lines and intricate shapes, as if stained glass on card stock. Tubes of watercolor paint lay scattered at her feet, along with drying paintings; the paints were gallery-quality, not cheap hobby stuff.

"Me husband, he died two years ago." Her filmed-over eyes wandered; she didn't seem to notice Joe was there. "I lost everything. Lost me house. Me children left. Me family did not want me. Nobody wanted me." Quiet acceptance: just life, just the way of the world.

For the first time, Joe looked her in the face. She was much older than he'd thought at first: easily sixty, maybe more. Barely more than skin and bones, face bony and eyes sunken, her scarves and wraps faded and worn. Not a street hustler. An old woman. A starved, homeless old woman.

The woman kept talking, telling her story to the air, the street. Her voice had a measured rhythm, sure and steady. "But God called. He called to me heart, and me art called me here, to the Bay, the ocean. Called me so hard, the Spirit did, and I had to follow. I had to follow God. Follow His Spirit. Follow His Healing. Out here."

Joe couldn't just walk away. But what to do…? Bracing himself with the crutch, he eased down to her level, to kneel on the cold concrete.

Frank had moved closer, studying the woman before he knelt himself.

"I don't do the tourist crowds. They be over there. I stay over here. Next to the water. The land. The sun." Humor colored the woman's voice. "And the seagulls, the little beggars."

"We've got the same problem back home," Joe said.

"Ours are outright muggers," Frank said, smiling. "You're risking your life if you go near them with french fries."

"These go for bagels," the woman said, grinning back, as if seeing them for the first time. "But…I don't do drugs. I don't do drink. Only me art. I have to create. I always have to create. If I don't, I die. Die here, in me heart." She touched her chest. "Watercolor like this, it's not cheap. Nor the paper stock. I don't do cheap."

"They're beautiful." Joe picked up one of the little glowing paintings, then pressed a ten into her hand. It seemed shameful to reduce that beauty to a cash transaction, but he didn't know what else to do. "Here. Please."

"Oh!" She sounded delighted. "You're my first customer today, you know that? This your brother? Then take a second, please. A gift. One for each."

Joe opened his mouth, but Frank had already folded his hands gently around hers. "It's okay," Frank said. "But no. Thank you."

"No, no, you must. Beauty must be _shared."_

Ashamed — he'd thought she was just a street hustler, someone selling him a line — Joe shook his head. "Then pass the beauty to the next person. Please."

"You sound like little Hawk." Her grin widened. "You know her."

The brothers exchanged confused looks. "Yeah," Frank said, before Joe could get his mouth to work. "We do."

"Your little tagalong." At that, Frank and Joe both started, but the woman spoke on. "His Spirit tell me. It always speaks, speaks to me heart. Tell her — listen to the children. Beware the one alone. The one who do not speak." Then the filmed-over, wandering gaze focused on Joe. "Do not give yourself to fear, young one." Before he could flinch away, she'd laid a gentle hand on Joe's chest. "Spirit help you, in your heart."

"Thank you," Joe said, to cover his disquiet. He levered himself up; his legs had fallen asleep from being in one position so long. He staggered, and the woman caught him. There was surprising strength in her bony hand, steadying Joe until he got the crutch under his arm, then the steadying hand turned into a warm clasp and mutual grins — for once, real and unforced on Joe's part.

Frank stared at the woman, then shook himself, backed off. "Kris must've told her," he said under his breath, as he and Joe moved away. Frank didn't sound sure of that, though.

"Let's head back. I've got too many questions right now." Joe glanced back. The woman was now chatting with a grungy teen who'd sat down next to her; she hugged him as if he was an old friend. It didn't seem right, going to some tourist restaurant while the woman — an old woman who'd lost everything, who had nothing but her small watercolors — lived homeless and hungry on the street.

"You and me both." Frank's gaze was back on the woman. "Suddenly I'm not hungry."


	10. Wild World

The Muni ride back was quiet. The streetcar was mostly empty, but the brothers sat in the back corner, against the wall and facing the rest of the car. Frank took the seat on the aisle, between Joe and the other passengers. None looked threatening, but then, neither had Thatcher.

Frank couldn't take that chance. Not anymore.

The walk from the Muni stop back to the Center was peaceful, surrounded in green and trees, the Bay gleaming with sun-sparkles. Breathing in the fresh breeze, Frank stopped often to look out over the Bay and to give Joe a chance to rest — though Joe would never admit to needing it. Stubborn Little Brother didn't say anything, but Frank heard the stumble in walking rhythm and the sharp hiss of pain, saw Joe's hands clench around the crutch. Tiny signs, unnoticeable to most, maybe, but not for Frank.

Frank reached the Center's front door first, opened it for Joe to go ahead of him. The commons was empty, save for a few people arguing over a stack of books, a pile of colorful plastic polyhedrons, and graph paper with crude metal miniatures on it. Their table was piled with bags of chips and cans of soda, along with the remains of several pizzas.

Frank sighed: Dungeons and Dragons. Chet had gotten into the game as his hobby-of-the-week; he'd tried to get the brothers interested while Joe was still in casts. Maybe if Chet had been a decent storyteller, Frank would've been into it, but he and Joe were already dealing with the real thing.

"I dunno, Dave." The woman in the group shook her head. "It seems awfully complicated for the shelter."

"Hey, the new guys," one of the others said, a round-faced, middle-aged Hispanic man with an easy grin. He offered his hand. "Frank and Joe, right? Samuel Florés. That's Ruth, Matt, Dave. Don't worry if you don't remember. You're the only two we don't know, but there's a ton of faces for you to memorize."

Ruth looked a little older than Frank: Asian, long wavy black hair, wide dark eyes in a mischievous face. Dave, though, was a scowling teen, Black and chubby, thick glasses; he didn't look friendly at all. Aside from that, everyone looked…well…normal. None would stand out in a crowd, nor would Frank have given any of them a second glance — except for Ruth.

Matt pushed a chair out with his foot; he was a grizzled white man, washed-out eyes, thick muscled arms with obvious burn scars. "Pull up, guys. It must've been tough walking from the Muni stop on that crutch."

"Not too bad." Joe remained standing.

"We saw Jamie drooling over you last night, Joe." Ruth was grinning. "You'll want to watch out for her."

That got snorts around the table. "Aw, man, don't warn them," said Dave, sitting back in his chair with arms crossed and glowering at Frank and Joe.

"She was?" Joe said. "I mean…we do?"

"Okay, I'll bite," Frank said, smiling at Ruth. She definitely rated a second glance, and a third, and a fourth. Except for Dave, everyone seemed friendly enough. "Why?"

"Three words," Ruth said. "SFSU art student."

"_Graduate_ student," added Samuel, "on a NEA grant."

"Someone to help me study," Joe said.

"She won't care about criminology, Joe," Frank said. "NEA's National Endowment for the Arts."

It earned him a dirty look; Frank met it with calm innocence. So Little Brother was smitten already?

"And if that doesn't clue you in, we're not saying anything more," Samuel said.

"C'mon, Sam," Matt said. "She's cool. She designed my tattoo, y'know."

"You've only told us a few hundred times," Samuel said.

"Tattoo?" Joe said.

Matt stood up, pulled his t-shirt up to display his back. Under the shirt, the man was as muscled and hairy as his arms, though with a beer-belly — but across his shoulders was an owl, wings spread in flight, each feather detailed in rich browns and creams. It looked ready to fly off Matt's back.

"Wow," Joe said. "I thought they only said 'Mom' with anchors."

"You're a sailor?" Frank said.

Matt pulled his shirt down. "Nah. Firefighter. Beam fell on me, few months back. Jamie designed that to cover the scarring."

"And he's been showing it off to anyone who looks even a little curious," Samuel said. "Jamie's _other_ work, now…"

"Hey," Matt chucked a plastic die at Samuel, "no tellin' tales about our girl."

"Speak for yourself," Ruth said. "I want front row if they ask Rafe about the grapes."

"Rafe," Joe said. "You mean Karma's guitarist?"

"Yup," Ruth said. "Himself."

"You're trying to get them killed," Samuel said, grinning at the brothers.

"Small loss," said a male voice, from the upper landing.

Frank looked up. The speaker was a white man about Dad's age, crew-cut blonde hair, clean-shaven and hard-muscled in a Marines sweatshirt and loose-cut jeans. His gaze fixed on the Hardys, he paced down the stairs, one slow step at a time.

"So you're the new ones."

"Frank Hardy." Frank stepped in front of his brother. "My brother Joe…"

"I know who you are." At the bottom of the stairs, the man leaned back against the railing, arms crossed. "Don't bother being friendly."

"Nice to meet you, too," Joe said. "You must win all kinds of congeniality awards."

"Give 'em a chance, Harold," Ruth said. "Mar and Josh spoke for them. That's enough."

"It shouldn't be," the man said. "Or didn't those two tell you that their daddy's with the CIA?"

"No, he's not." Frank kept his voice level. "He's a private detective, out of Massachusetts."

"And you're clueless on top of it," Harold said. "Don't even know who your daddy really works for, do you, _mundane?_ So how much have you told him already?"

"Like you're really encouraging them to keep their mouths shut," Samuel muttered.

"_You're_ the ones sitting next to a Navy base," Joe snapped. "They should be looking at you if they're worried about the feds, not us."

Frank's jaw clenched: Joe and his mouth. But who Dad's clients were? Why did that matter?

…_in case you start wondering who you really work for…_

The man pushed away from the railing; he moved like a stalking panther. Frank held his ground, not moving from in front of Joe.

"You're questioning my loyalty?" The man stopped just out of casual reach. "You? The crippled gay-bait who wants to be a _Blade?"_

"Downs…" Matt said, behind them.

"He's not a cripple." Frank shifted his stance, balanced, ready.

"I should warn you," Joe said, behind him. "Frank's a black belt. A master of the martial arts."

The last time Joe had tried that bluff, they'd nearly been smeared all over a hotel room by a pair of thugs. But Frank held his gaze steady on the man.

A cold smile touched Harold Downs's face._ "_The baby mundane thinks he can stand against me. I'm waiting, _boy. _Your move."

The air was charged, tense. _Mundane._ Un-Gifted. Kris and Joshua had used the term, but until now, it hadn't sounded like an insult. Frank said nothing.

Not that it stopped Joe. "He's giving you a fair shot at running away."

"Really." Downs's gaze bored into Frank's face. "I guess you would know about running. They told us all about it. Left your brother behind while you ran. Ran like a coward and left him to die."

…_I don't have time or inclination to deal with you idiots…_

"Hey, big brothers." Kris, from the landing. She came down the stairs, nodded at Downs as she passed. "Hey, Harold. C'mon up, guys, I've been waiting for you. _Shimá _said she shoved you onto the Muni."

"She did. After Butterfly threatened to toss them out. I saw that fiasco this morning." Downs's gaze moved back to Joe. "How long are you going to last now, faggot?"

"You just went too far," Matt growled, with a scrape of chair against the floor.

"Stop it, Matt," Ruth said. "You know better. So do you, Harold. You took it too far three statements ago."

"My apologies. I should've said _cripple." _Downs's gaze stayed on Joe. "Or both."

"You always use kindergarten insults?" Frank said. Get it over with. Let it all end now. "Or don't you have the brains to use anything else?"

"It's all you narcs understand." Dave's smile wasn't pleasant. "Working for the man."

"I work for the man, too, Dave," Samuel said. "How 'bout using your brain for a change?"

"And I said enough," Ruth snapped. "All of you."

Kris was now between Downs and the brothers, facing Frank. "C'mon upstairs, big brothers. Don't say another word. Please."

"That's it," Downs said. "Hide behind the little girl."

Frank had started up the stairs, rounded, but Kris was right behind him, blocking him.

"Don't, Frank," Kris said. "Don't answer it. Just go upstairs. Please."

"You can't protect the babies forever, girl," Downs said.

"I'd rather hide behind her than you," Joe said.

"_Joe,"_ Kris said. "Don't. Just move."

Jaw clenched, Frank glared back at Downs. The man watched them, with just a hint of sneer.

"That's it," Downs said. "Run away again, boy_._ You and your crippled baby brother."

"Hey, Kris," Ruth said. Too calm. Too casual. "I heard Godzilla's doing sushi tonight. Any chance of us ingratiating ourselves into your company?"

"You people and bait," Matt muttered.

Kris shrugged. "Call Josh and ask. I don't know how much Godz planned for."

"You know him," Ruth said. Behind her, Samuel was now scowling at Frank and Joe; Ruth didn't look happy, either. "Better too much than not enough. You going to Wings?"

"After I introduce them to the joy of Boudin's, yeah," Kris said as she and the brothers hit the top of the stairs. "Go on, guys."

"You'd better answer us about this sushi business sooner or later," Joe rasped. "Before I bring out the water balloons."

"Breathe, big brother," Kris said quietly. "That crap below isn't worth your time. Go on back and let me trigger the silence before you explode, okay?"

She had a lot to answer for. Just what had everyone been told about New Orleans? Frank held his silence with effort; Joe limped through the archway, sank down onto the nearest chair, but Frank remained standing.

"Master of the martial arts?" he said mildly, to Joe. Frank would not blow up at his brother. Joe looked shaken enough.

"Sorry," Joe said. "It just slipped out."

Kris had shut the outer door, then leaned back against the wall, eyes closed.

Their tagalong, though, was another matter. "You know, I can defend myself," Frank said to her.

Her voice was shaky. "I know you can. That wasn't the problem."

"I'll fight my own battles. Me and Joe aren't helpless —"

"Big brother, I _never _thought _—"_

"— and we don't need a little tagalong interfering!"

That shut her up, staring in wide-eyed shock.

"So what did you tell everyone about New Orleans?" Frank said, seething. "I'm a coward and Joe's a cripple, is that it?"

"_No!_ How you could even —_ I told the truth!"_

"You did a real good job of it!"

"_What,"_ it made them all jump; Mar stood in her doorway, "is all the yelling about?"

"Ask him," Kris snapped. "He started it." She stormed through the patio doors before Mar could call her back.

"Okay," Mar said calmly. "Am I going to get some explanation as to why you're screaming like children? Or are you going to storm out of here, too?"

"I might as well." Frank didn't move, arms crossed. "You people don't want us here anyway."

"With everything I went through to get you here, I'm not eager to toss you back." Mar sat on the arm of the chair Joe was in. "Sit, please, my son. I want to hear why you're in such an uproar."

_My son._ Frank wanted to believe it. Couldn't, not after what had happened, not after two months of Dad and Aunt Gertrude. Just another emotional ploy. Just another attempt to get them to do what someone else wanted…

When Frank didn't answer and didn't move, Mar sighed. "Joe?"

Joe stared at his hands, the floor, anywhere but at Frank. Frank said nothing all through it, barely listening. Just what had everyone been told? Bad enough Joshua this morning, accusing Joe of playing helpless and threatening to toss them out. Getting it from Kris was too much, especially since Joe had been struggling to _not_ be helpless, with Frank running interference and taking Dad's accusations in the teeth, helping Joe recover, getting them both away…

Silence. Frank looked up.

"Anything you want to add?" Mar said.

"Other than Kris treating us like babies, no," Frank said.

"Was she?"

Frank didn't answer. Even Mar had implied Joe was helpless, just this morning.

"There are folks here who aren't happy about you two," Mar said gently. "Mostly because of your father. His CIA connections scare them badly."

"He's not —" Joe started.

"He is. Hold off a moment, Joe, please. Our people want to live their lives, just like you. But the government — certain parts of it — doesn't see it like that. Our Gifts should be under their control and command. They get illegal about it. Very illegal, and very ruthless."

Mar's implications were obvious. Frank still stood silent, mouth tight, arms crossed. He wasn't liking this, not one bit.

"But Dad wouldn't," Joe said, with a glance at Frank. "He wouldn't do that."

"I know," Mar's gaze had settled on Joe. "Believe me, I know that even better than you do. But folks here don't know him as you or I do."

"Is that why you were in Bayport?" Frank said. "Spying on Dad?" Was this what Hammond had meant?

"You know better." Gentle reproof. "No. I was helping Boston Center get up and running, but I wanted a calmer place for Kris to grow up. That we ended up next door to you was coincidence."

Mar never lied; Frank knew that. Not once had he and Joe ever caught her in any lie, not even the standard lies given to children. Though that only meant they'd never caught her out. Frank shifted, trying not to show his unease.

"So here you are," Mar said, "with a father with those connections. Harold Downs is on Council. He leads those vocal, scared people who want nothing to do with you, who think that you're — at best — unwitting moles. Think what would've happened if you'd thrown a punch, Frank." Quieter, "Kris was protecting you, but not in the way you think."

"So we just stand there and take it," Frank said. "Let him say what he wants and say nothing. That's what you're saying. Just give in."

"I'm saying to pick your battles wisely. Let your calm head rule. You throw a punch, and Downs has what he wants — an excuse to have you tossed out. Why give him that power?"

"So you brought us here and dropped us in the middle of all that," Frank said, from clenched teeth. He didn't need it. _Joe_ didn't need it.

"He's in the minority —"

"Yeah," Frank said. "Right."

"— and he will be dealt with," Mar finished. "Holding opinions is one thing. Bullying you as that is against our code. He knows that."

Which would provoke even more insults about _running back to Mama_. "I can take care of myself." Frank's tone was barely civil. "I don't need you interfering, either."

"Frank," Joe said.

"You're setting yourself up for a hard lesson, my son," Mar said, still calm, still quiet.

"Is that a threat?"

"_Frank!"_

"No." Mar's face was unreadable. "Only the truth. A truth that I'm afraid you're going to learn for yourself."


	11. Collide

Joe had heard enough. He pushed to his feet, started for the patio doors. He just wanted to get out and calm down.

"If you go out again," Mar hadn't lost the calm quiet, not once, "be back for dinner, please. Joshua wants to talk to you both when he gets back."

Wonderful. Someone else to yell at them. Joe made it out onto the patio; Frank was right behind him and stepped out before Joe shut the doors completely. Frank went to the end of the porch, out of line-of-sight of the doors, and settled to lean on his arms against the rail.

"You believe her?" Frank said.

"About Dad?" Joe couldn't look at him; Downs' taunts still echoed in his head. "I think she's telling the truth, as they know it. You know there's stuff Dad won't talk about."

That despite their dogged determination to try to uncover those things when they were kids and excited about Dad being involved with super-secret spy stuff. Dad had never quite discouraged them; he'd always seemed pleased — and exasperated — when he'd caught them at it, even as he lectured them on client confidentiality. He'd been proud of his sons taking after him.

Until New Orleans, anyway.

"Maybe." Frank's gaze was on the Bay. "There's something else going on. Those people don't want us here, but Mar and Josh bring us here anyway. Mar talked about the government wanting Gifts under their control, and all I could think was that this place wants the same thing. And us, under their control."

"What Hammond said," Joe said.

Frank didn't answer.

"Mar's never lied to us, even when we didn't believe her," Joe said. "Why lie now?_"_

"To get us disaffected. To separate us from Dad. From — I don't know, from the government, maybe. To get us more loyal to this place than to anything else."

Dad had been doing a good job of that himself, without any help. Joe sighed. "They're going about it a really stupid way."

"I know," Frank breathed it out, a frustrated sigh. "That's the one thing I can't get around."

Still, Frank had a point. Joe knew better than to ignore Frank's _doesn't-make-sense_. Why bring them out here, if people were against it? More: Hammond had to have a reason for the obvious fishing expedition back in Bayport — and, thinking it over, Joe couldn't see a seasoned FBI man trying to recruit two raw, unknown quantities as agents. It'd sounded more as if Hammond had been trying to figure out where their loyalties were.

One side upset because they thought Joe and Frank were agents, the other side thinking Joe and Frank were converted recruits. Wonderful.

"Guys." From below the patio. Kris stood there, looking up. "Your voices really carry. You're going to get overheard."

"You were down there a long time while we were talking," Frank said as she came up the stairs. "You running to tattle to Mar now?"

"Frank," Joe said. Frank's snarling at Kris — it wasn't anything like him. Not his calm, collected brother.

Kris paused at the patio doors. "I can't listen to this." She sounded defeated. "Have it your way, Frank. Leave. No one'll stop you. You won't see any of us again."

"Just like that," Frank said. "After all the noise that idiot made about Dad being CIA, this place'll really just let us go."

"Neither of you know jack about anything at this point," Kris said flatly. "So go home. We don't care. No one twisted your arm to come here."

"Yeah, right. You've been forcing us all this time, you and the psychic crap. You wouldn't let it rest, and because of _you, _we got dragged in!"

"Because of me, _nothing!_ Let's say I did keep my mouth shut. Screw it, let's just go there and say we never even _met."_

"Kris," Joe said, "don't."

"You're right," Frank said, over top of Joe. "We should never have met. We wouldn't be out here, we'd be okay, Dad wouldn't —"

"You'd be _dead_."

Silence.

"Go on, Frank." Her voice shook; Kris looked pale, but stood her ground. "Me not being there? Thatcher still would've targeted you two. You still would've gotten those dolls. And this time —"

"I wouldn't have known what to do about them." Joe didn't want this escalating. His heart hurt, his whole chest ached, and he was struggling not to break down, caught and trapped in the middle. Kris had _never_ blown up at them like this, ever…

…but Frank had never blown up at her, either…

"Wow," Kris said. "You admit that. There's actually something you don't know."

"I'm not the one yelling at you." Joe wasn't going to blow up. He wasn't. "Kris, please —"

There were tears in her eyes. _"All I've ever done is try to wake you up so you wouldn't get caught like that." _ With that, Kris slammed through the patio doors. Joe heard her snap something at Mar, loud and angry even through the thick glass. Mar didn't react, only turned, saw Joe watching from the doors.

Joe looked away, towards the trees and the Bay. Head bowed, Frank was leaning on his arms against the deck railing.

"We still would've gone to Mardi Gras," Joe said. "Thatcher's magic would still have been real. I would've been grabbed by that lure. Okay," Joe raised his voice, as Frank opened his mouth, "maybe not. But we would've been drawn in, one way or another. You tell me what would've happened after that."

"We would've figured Thatcher out."

"_No. _You were all for following him. You believed his story, because of that lure. Don't you get it? _This stuff's real no matter what we believe._"

There, right there: the whole problem. It was all real, and Frank — solid, grounded, _everything-has-to-make-sense_ Frank — was getting it shoved in his face about how wrong they'd both been. Shoved in both their faces, so hard that they'd nearly died over it, that Joe had been _crippled_ because of it.

"Maybe you're right." Joe looked away. "Maybe we would've figured Thatcher out. And then what? You said it yourself: we couldn't fight something like that. I tried. Look how far I got."

Frank said nothing.

"Tag's right. Let's just go home. Forget this place even exists."

"Joe —"

"I can be an accountant," Joe bore on. "Something safe. Like Dad wants. You can go on, follow in Dad's footsteps, forget about everything we wanted to do, everything I wanted…"

The words choked him. Swallowing the rest, Joe limped through the patio doors, made it back to the sanctuary of his room and collapsed on the bed.

Eyes closed, Joe curled up, willing himself not to break down. They'd just gotten here. They'd just arrived, and already everything was screwed up beyond repair. _If you stay,_ Joshua had snarled at them; _go home_, Kris had said.

_How long you gonna last now?_

It was over. Done. Two people who'd been wanting them here, one who'd been a close friend — a _sister_ — for years, had given up on them, too. Hopeless, useless, no good for anything. He and Frank hadn't even been here a full day, and already it was total failure.

"Joe?" Frank, from the door.

Joe didn't answer.

Weight settled on the end of the bed. "You'd make a lousy accountant. I know your math."

"Which means I'd be a great embezzler. It'd be too messed up for anyone to read the books."

Silence stretched out.

Finally Frank sighed. "What a day. Already washed out, and we haven't even started."

"Boys?" Mar, from the hall door.

Might as well cap it off and end it completely. "Yeah," Joe said.

Mar stopped in Joe's doorway. "I'm going to the farmer's market. Anything you want me to get? I've already got swiss cheese and bologna on the list."

"You mean we're going to be allowed to stay long enough to eat?" Frank said.

"Do you want to stay?"

That brought both their heads up. "But Kris said —" Joe started.

"You're my guests. You're here until you choose to leave." Mar cocked her head. "You were never ones to run from trouble."

"Yeah, well, there's a first time for everything." Joe couldn't look at her.

…_run away again, you and your crippled baby brother…_

Mar came in, knelt to look Joe in the eyes; her warm hand gripped his shoulder. "My son, you're exhausted. It's so deep in your face that I'm surprised you're even awake." Her gaze moved up. "And Frank, dear, every line of you is a coiled spring ready to snap." Her gaze became stern. "You didn't eat much this morning, either. Why do I have the sneaking suspicion that you both skipped lunch?"

"Yes, mother." Joe couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"You mean everything looks bad because we're hungry and tired," Frank said.

"Always the sensible one," Mar said. "So. Remedy both. There's not much in the kitchen at the moment, but just ask anyone in the commons to point you towards the café."

"Café?" Joe said. "You've got a _restaurant _here?"

"It's a fancy word for 'jumped-up cafeteria'," Mar said. "Tell them you're with me. You're covered for the summer as my guests."

Frank helped Joe up; Joe let his weight rest heavily on the crutch. Mar was right. Exhaustion was an extreme understatement.

"Mar," Frank said, "I'm sorry."

"Accepted," Mar said. "Now go eat, and then _rest._ That's an order, both of you."

But both Frank and Joe pulled up short the moment they cleared their hall door — Kris was waiting, unsmiling, with shadowed eyes and crossed arms.

"For your information," she said, her voice neutral, controlled, "that _idiot_ is a pain in the neck. Get your terms right."

For a moment, Joe had no clue what she was talking about; from Frank's expression, he didn't either. But then Joe's brain caught up. "Harold Downs?"

She nodded. "He's good at getting under folks' skin. Hitting right in the sensitive spots. And for your _further_ information, me and Josh have a bet on which of you is gonna take him out first."

"You do?" Frank sounded surprised.

Mar brushed past the brothers; Joe caught the hard look she gave Kris. "Yeah," Kris said. "But in Drake's sessions. I was hoping to win that bet." She looked down. Quieter, wistful, "I was really looking forward to showing my big brothers around my stomping grounds."

Silence for a moment. "So am I," Frank said.

"Who are you betting on?" Joe said; his gut relaxed.

"Not telling," Kris said. "I don't want Josh claiming a foul when I win."

"When," Frank said, smiling a little.

"Yeah, _when. _If you choose to stay, I mean." Kris's gaze at Frank was steady, direct. "Um, and the bet's not over whether or not you'll be able to take Downs out. We know that already. Now…I don't know about you two, but I'm starved. C'mon. Boudin's, my treat."


	12. One Tin Soldier

The Embarcadero Muni line was stuffed to capacity, but Joe's crutch and bad limp got him a seat right across from the driver, nearest the front exit. Frank kept looking out the windows, making note of everything interesting — which was everything — while keeping a weather eye on the surrounding passengers: chattering tourists complaining about the cold, teens in spiked rainbow-painted hair and ragged t-shirts, an old Asian woman in a pink house-dress and laden with shopping bags.

Everything was different: buildings, land, even the trees — nobbly art-nouveau hat-racks or feathery things covered in bristly red flowers that looked like punk Muppets. All the cubical buildings were built low; there was too much sky, too much _space._

"Coit Tower," Kris said, when Frank spotted an odd stone tower on top of a high hill. "Good view of the Bay up there. Take a bag of chili peppers, if you go." Not even a hint of a smile.

Frank eyed her; he hadn't missed that she was keeping Joe between them. "I'm scared to ask."

"Feral parrots — I'm _serious,"_ she said, when both Frank and Joe stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "There's a huge flock of 'em up there. They'll eat right out of your hand, if you're careful. And they love jalapeños."

"You're going to overload Aunt Gertrude with bird pictures, I know it," Frank said to Joe.

"It's a dirty job," Joe said, "but someone's gotta do it."

Boudin's turned out to be right on the Wharf, a blocky building of glass and corrugated metal with a pair of street buskers outside vying for attention and tips — Frank paused at the display window. It was piled with huge alligators, crabs, and misshapen lobsters, all made of golden sourdough, all with goofy, bread-dough grins.

"Let's send Aunt Gertrude one of those and get Dad to film it when she opens the box," Joe said.

"We couldn't afford the hospital bills from the heart attack," Frank said, smiling. Joe sounded almost normal.

"They won't survive the mail. I sent one to Chet last Christmas, and the post office crushed it to oblivion." Kris paused. "Though he said it was _delicious_ oblivion."

"Only one?" Frank said. "Your memory's going if you thought that was enough for Chet."

"My memory's a lot better than yours," Kris said, with an edge.

He'd only meant it as a joke. Frank opened his mouth, but Joe's crutch jabbed into Frank's foot, and Frank grabbed him before Joe took a header into the sidewalk.

Without another word, Kris went ahead of them into the restaurant.

Bracing against Frank's shoulder, Joe got his balance back, then faced Frank squarely. "You owe her a real apology. You were worse than that pain in the neck, the way you acted. She didn't deserve any of that."

Jaw clenched, Frank held back his words. He didn't need a fight with Joe, not on top of everything else.

"It's like I don't even know you any more —"

"I hear you."

"— I mean, I'm the one who's supposed to get all worked up, not you. You're the —"

"— oldest, I know," Frank finished for him; Joe sounded too much like Mom at the worst of times. Frank pushed Joe ahead of him, into the restaurant. "I _said_ I heard you. Go on, I'm starved."

The air smelled of grilled meat and baking bread; it reminded Frank that breakfast had been too long ago. They got a table in the back corner, right by a wall of windows overlooking the Bay and a dock filled with colorful fishing boats laden with fluttering pennants and float-tied nets. Joe grabbed the corner chair between wall and windows and sank into it with a sigh; Frank made sure to take the one between Joe and the nearest table.

The aromas were driving Frank to distraction, but he had to take a second…then a third…look at the menu. _Artisan_ ham? Goat cheese pizza? Grilled cheese with _figs?_

At least the burgers sounded normal. Mostly.

"Take your time." Kris had taken the chair across from Frank. "Order whatever you want. We don't have to be at Wings for a while yet."

"We?" Joe said, with a quick glance at his brother.

Frank didn't have to be Gifted to tell what Joe was thinking. Wings, the runaway shelter. That old woman had told them to tell Kris to listen to the children.

Kris hesitated. "Josh's idea. He thought it'd be good to get the kids used to you. You don't have to — it's just that I'm on roster today. Most of us volunteer down there. I know Mar said to rest, but…well…it's fun."

Tag never could hide anything; it was always easy to tell when she was trying to gloss something over. Frank scowled. "Mar told us about you taking on a pimp."

Girls had to get special training in that _look, _the one that said _stop-being-such-a-guy._ Kris had it down cold. "All I did was get the kids upstairs. The security guards handled the rest. Off-duty cops. It's in the ghetto, Hunter's Point. The gang 'hood."

"_Gangs?" _Joe said.

"Westmob and Big Bloc, ID'd Crips' tags last week, but it's probably just wannabes." Kris looked from Joe to Frank and back. "Look, don't worry about it. Wings has rep. They mostly leave us alone."

"Mostly," Frank said.

"Is that what's expected?" Joe said softly. "As…as what we are?"

"Um." Kris glanced around the busy restaurant. "I need to hook in. May I?"

With an uncertain glance at Frank, Joe reached across the table. Kris touched his hand, and both brothers jumped — something feathered across Frank's skin, as if he'd run into a spider web.

"What was that?" Frank caught himself, lowered his voice.

"Misdirection." Elbows on the table, Kris rubbed at her temples. "You can talk normal. Folks won't pay any attention. Man, Joe. That amp of yours is like getting smacked with a two-by-four."

The whole _spooky-stuff-is-real_ thing had been eating at him, but Frank could see definite uses for something like that. "Can you teach Joe how to do that?"

Kris nodded. "He should be able to handle a full silence, like what's on our space."

"There is," Frank said, at the same time as Joe's "I _can?"_

"Yes," Kris said.

Well, she'd just handed them the opening. "So there's more to that magic than just wards." Frank didn't mean that to sound accusing, but…

Joe kicked him under the table.

Eyeing Frank, Kris settled back in her chair as the waiter dropped off their drinks and two baskets of homemade potato chips. Frank didn't try to compete, just pushed the nearest basket towards Joe. But Frank also saw the quick once-over the man gave both him and Joe, the appreciative smile, and that the man's left ear was pierced. Thankfully, Joe didn't seem to notice.

"When we asked about it," Frank said, after the waiter left, "you were about to say something, but Mar stopped you."

"You asked if it was wards." Quiet, as if some decision had been reached. "That's all it is."

"But you just said there was silence."

"On the living room, so no one outside can hear any chat. It's something any of us can trigger."

"Sounds handy," Joe said.

There was something Kris wasn't saying, Frank was sure of it. But he had no idea what, or worse, why. "So there's nothing else on our rooms?"

"As far as I know. Maybe a silence, and if that's there, Josh left it as a courtesy for whoever took over his space. It's a privacy thing."

Frank looked away. She never lied to them, and they'd never lied to her, ever. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Hammond's insinuations must have gotten to him more than he'd thought.

"I'll check 'em when we get back. Better," Kris tapped Joe's hand, "I'll show _you_ how to check." Her mouth quirked, not quite a smile. "Psychic eradication, though…that's graduate work. You barely have your kindergarten diploma."

"Dad'll love that sign on our detective business," Frank muttered, his suspicion easing. It had to be on the up-and-up if she was going to show Joe how to do it. If Joe could learn how to do that silence, Frank could definitely see uses for the spooky stuff.

"Paranormal investigation and extermination," Joe said. "We can call ourselves 'The Ghost Busters'."

"I call dibs on Spencer," Frank said.

"You can have him," Joe said. "I want the gorilla."

"And…" Kris breathed out, "…to answer your original question, Joe. It's not required. It's a way of keeping our ears to the ground, though. Street rats, homeless folks, they're usually the first targets, unfortunately."

"Because they won't be missed," Frank said.

Kris nodded. "We all have our methods. If you decide it's not for you, then it's not. It's just that Wings's been running short-handed. That's all I was thinking."

"You said Josh told you to take us," Frank said.

"I was going to anyway. Frank, seriously, spooky stuff doesn't happen at Wings. Not like that."

"Yeah, about that." Joe gave Frank a quick look, then pulled out the little watercolor from his jacket and laid it on the table. The colors glowed, jewel-bright, stained-glass-beautiful. "We ran into this."

"You met Anga." Kris had an odd note to her voice.

"That's Swahili," Frank said. "'Radiance'."

"Um…if you say so. Josh tagged her with it. I don't think she remembers her real name."

"Wait," Joe said. "She's Gifted…?" Kris nodded, "…and you know her, but she's _still_ out there?"

"_Joe,"_ Frank said.

Joe went right over top of him. "You just dump her like that? That big place, and _you can't find space for one old woman?"_

"We've tried," Kris said. "She won't go. Did she tell you her story?"

"That she lost everything, and she's doing art on the street to live," Frank said, before Joe could open his mouth again. "She tried to give us her paintings. She almost didn't take Joe's money for that one."

"And whatever she did take, she'll just buy more paint with." Kris looked down. "I don't like it, either, big brothers. But we don't have a right to take someone's choice. Even when their choice is bad."

Joe didn't look convinced. Frank didn't believe it, either. It sounded too much like a cop-out.

"Big brothers…" Kris sighed. "Look, I've got a spare room. I've offered it to her. _Shimá's _done the same. So's Josh, and he's got a house in the Castro with Godzilla — he thought it was a pride thing and offered it like artist space for her stuff. A lot of folks around the Center tried, too. She turned all of us down. Some folks won't take help. You get so hit by life that you think you're not worth it…" Kris breathed out, long and frustrated. "We'd love to get Anga off the street. But none of us are about to drag her."

Silence for a long moment. "She somehow knew we were brothers," Frank said, "and that we knew you. And told us…something. For you to listen to the children."

"To beware the one alone," Joe said, head bowed. "The one that doesn't speak."

With another heavy release of breath, Kris leaned back in her chair.

"So there _is_ something going on." Frank did not want Joe in the middle of trouble. Not yet. Not ever.

"Are you going to start yelling again?" Kris said.

That pulled Frank up short. Memory rose from somewhere, a little abused runaway with wide, scared eyes, scared of _him _and fleeing into the snowy woods…

"Maybe it'd be best if you went back to Center," Kris said. "The kids don't need that in their faces."

"No," Joe said, firm and resolute — though Frank caught the slight shake to Joe's voice. "If it's something we're supposed to do, then we do it."

Kris shook her head. "You made that sound like such a chore. Wings isn't like that, big brother. It's not a _supposed-to_. You'll see."

"Kris," Frank sighed, rubbing at his forehead, "look…"

"I have no clue what Anga meant," Kris cut him off. "And if I did, I wouldn't drag you in blind."

"I didn't say you were," Frank said.

"You were implying it." Kris leaned forward. "When have I ever done that to you? Or ratted on you? And when did you start thinking I _would? _Big brother, what did I _do?_"

Toying with his spoon, Frank said nothing. Joe stared out of the windows, as if he wasn't paying any attention.

"Well?"

"Nothing," Frank sighed again. "You did nothing. Tag…I'm sorry."

Kris said nothing for a long moment. "About Wings," she said finally. "There are a couple kids I'm worried about, but it's a CPS thing, not a Blades thing. I don't know if I'm overreacting because of my background or what."

"You want an unbiased second opinion, you mean." So she was dragging them in to something.

"When you say 'CPS thing'," Joe said slowly, "what exactly does that mean?"

"Child Protective Services," Kris said. "Like…um…my original parents. Stuff that puts a kid in danger from their family."

Frank and Joe exchanged a look.

Kris sighed. "Frank…cut me some slack, all right? I'm not dragging you there because of that. You'll see."

From that point, she turned the conversation off Wings with a "just wait, you'll see" as the waiter brought their food. It was every bit as good as the farmer's market folks claimed: the clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl was pure, instant addiction. Frank stole a slice of Joe's pizza — goat cheese, shitake mushrooms, and fresh basil — and Joe retaliated by spearing the pickle off Frank's plate and snitching extra potato chips when Frank wasn't watching. Frank didn't mind; it was the closest Joe had come to acting normal since New Orleans.

Back outside, the day had turned warmer, though the breeze off the Bay was brisk. Frank caught sight of the iconic Fisherman's Wharf sign, just a half-block away. Under it, a crowd was gathered around a group of street buskers, clapping along to infectious electric guitar licks and synthesizer.

Joe stared that direction, then turned away, gaze down.

Frank watched him. There had to be a way. There had to be. He would give his own left arm just to hear Joe play again…or at least to walk away whenever Joe started singing.

"Guys," Kris said, "c'mon. Muni's coming."

The ride was silent; Joe stared out the window, ignoring Frank's attempts at conversation. They changed buses twice, the neighborhood getting progressively worse at each stop: buildings boarded-up and run-down despite the bright colors, more second-hand stores, pawn shops, metal roll gates and iron bars across windows. Homeless folks sat against the sides of buildings, their belongings piled next to them.

Finally, they got out at Third and Carroll. Frank's attention was drawn to a small group of men hanging out nearby and watching the Muni stop intently. Kris glanced towards them, then headed across the street to a three-story building that took up almost half the block. It was an odd, slant-angled structure in alternating hues of yellow and beige, the wall on the Carroll Street side covered in a bright mural: children of every color wrapped in the golden wings of a smiling Virgin of Guadalupe.

"'Wings of The Mother Goddess Enfolding San Francisco'," Joe read; the black uncial lettering ran in a bright golden ribbon wrapped around the winged woman. "Are you _serious?"_

"Unfortunately," Kris sighed. "It was a Summer of Love hippie thing. By the time folks got embarrassed by it, it was too late to change it."

Frank noticed uneasily that a couple of the men moved to to the Muni stop. "We're being watched."

"Um, yeah. They do that. That's Big Bloc, I think. Don't stare. They'll consider it a challenge, and they'll beat the crap out of you."

"Noted," Frank said.

"Don't worry, big brother." Kris patted Frank's shoulder. "I'll protect you."

Frank and Joe exchanged a _look_ — and then Frank grabbed her as Joe launched a retaliatory tickle attack. It didn't do any good — Kris wasn't ticklish — but she still yelped, squirmed out of Frank's grasp, and backed out of reach.

"Score?" Joe said to Frank.

"Tie," Frank said, heartened; Joe seemed back to normal again. "Though I get an extra point for having to hold onto her."

"_You?_ I had to brave the frontal assault!"

"Points taken away on both sides," Kris said, "since I'm not ticklish and I got away."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge, Tagalong?"

Kris pushed open the door. "Just for that, after you. Which puts me _behind_ you." Then, quieter, after Joe had passed and Frank started to follow, "And I'm sorry, too, big brother."

Frank stopped, looked at her, then offered his hand. "Truce?"

She took it. "Truce."


	13. Runaway Train

_**A/N: Thanks to DuffyBarkley, ChrisDaughterOfApollo, Caranath, & Xenithia for the reviews!**_

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So far, the day had been an exhausting, emotional roller coaster; Joe wasn't sure he was ready to deal with kids, not at all. He was having a hard enough time dealing with himself.

But Joe was supposed to deal with stuff like this. That was why Joshua had recruited them…wasn't it?

_You? The crippled gay-bait who wants to be a Blade?_

Deal with it. Right. Joe couldn't even deal with himself.

Watching the passing streets, the city, the life, his attention kept getting caught by the _colors_ — buildings in every shade of blue, green, pink, red — the big open sky, the people. So much space, so much_ life, a_ city that embraced all of its people in a swath of living, ever-changing color… But he kept catching Frank watching him, with that scowl that meant Older Brother was about to start acting concerned. Somehow Joe forced a smile on his face, made a couple quips, and joined in the Tag-teasing, enough to make Older Brother's concern focus elsewhere. Joe wasn't in the mood for it.

Finally they were inside the shelter. The small entry area was comfortable, carpeted in thick rugs and hues of deep blue and green; a chunky middle-aged black woman at the desk chatted with a security guard.

"Hey Sandra," Kris said. "Ruth in?"

"Day room." Sandra gave the Hardys an eyebrows-raised once-over. "New victi — er, volunteers?"

"That makes me feel so much better," Joe said. Frank was watching him again; best to keep the mask in place.

Kris glanced over a list on the desk, tapped a name. "Again?"

"Yeah," Sandra sighed. "One of these days, we'll get him to stay."

"From your lips to the gods' ears," Kris murmured. "Come on, guys. Let's get you disoriented."

It proved truer than the joke Joe had taken it for. Ruth, the woman from the Center's commons, turned out to be in charge of the shelter; she took charge of them the minute they walked into the day room: a large comfortable space of loaded bookshelves, floor cushions, toys, sports equipment, a TV blaring some Spanish-language soap opera. It was the commons in miniature, minus the stained glass and plus over a couple dozen kids of various ages, mostly over ten.

Kris was immediately ambushed: a little Hispanic girl who couldn't have been more than five, her hair cut in a short bob, patched jeans and a pink sweatshirt with Minnie Mouse on it, the other a boy about ten, also Hispanic, in a torn 'Niners tee, a lean, feral face and suspicious eyes. The little girl grabbed Kris and clung to her — but Joe wasn't given a chance to figure out what was happening.

Ruth snagged Frank's arm and pulled both brothers after her for a tour. Joe stifled a sigh. Ruth wasn't being obvious, but Frank was going to find himself hunted, as usual.

Not that any sane woman would want Joe now; the bathroom mirror that morning had been too large, too ugly, and too truthful.

"We're both drop-in and long-term," Ruth was saying. "Not all of them are runaways. Kicked out of the house, aged out of the foster system — we've got some here now like that, about your age. Sometimes it takes a few visits before they're ready to stay off the streets permanent."

"_Our_ age?" Joe rasped.

"We call it a runaway shelter," Ruth said. "But the more accurate term is 'at-risk youth'. We take 'em in up to about twenty-three — the older ones, we help 'em get stable. Jobs, housing, that kind of thing."

They were in one of the bedroom hallways upstairs, empty and silent for the moment. _Bedroom_ was a misnomer: barracks-style, large rooms filled with bunk-beds, and lockers lined the hallway. "I don't mean this the wrong way," Frank said. "But I'm not seeing what we're expected to do. As Blades, I mean."

"Here?" Ruth smiled. "Same as our other volunteers. Be friends. Tutor if they want help. Goof off with them. Don't be afraid to open your heart. There's formal training that everyone goes through. Next session starts next week, if you decide to stay on rotation." She cocked her head at Joe. "Kris said you're a musician?"

Joe looked down. "Not anymore."

Silence.

"I'm sorry," Ruth said quietly. "One other thing. I know your dad was NYPD. Keep that on the down-low. The kids don't trust cops. That's the street, unfortunately. However, being a detective is totally cool. _Charlie's Angels _gets 'em chattering."

At that, both brothers sighed; Dad hated the show. "I wish it was like that," Joe said. "I'd love to be surrounded by gorgeous women."

"If Dad never had to handle a divorce case again, that'd be enough," Frank said.

"Speak for yourself," Joe said. "I'll take the chicks any day."

Back in the day room, the group around Kris had grown to about a dozen kids, Hispanic, white, Black, boys and girls, most in their teens, with papers scattered around the floor in the middle — Joe adjusted his first impression with a disquieting shock. No, not kids at all. As Ruth had said, a few were as old as he was.

Chattering half in Spanish, half in English, Kris sat on a floor cushion; she gestured Joe and Frank over. _"Oye, mocosos, hablan inglés durante algún tiempo, ¿okay? Estos hombres no hablan español."_ That to the group, then to the brothers, "Hey, guys. Pull up a cushion. Folks, these are my big brothers I've told you about, Frank and Joe."

Two of the older girls giggled: mid-teens, dark-haired, dark-eyed, wide grins. "_Son hermosos," _one said to the other.

"_Realmente, hablo español,"_ Frank said, and the girls blushed. "_Mi hermano no lo habla. Era demasiado perezoso aprender." _His smile widened to a grin at the girls._ "_And I already have a girlfriend, sorry."

Joe's internal sibling-alarm went off. What little Spanish he knew was from _Sesame Street: hermano_ meant _brother._ Frank had probably just said something revenge-worthy. "You and Nancy made it that far?" Joe said, as he eased himself down with his crutch; one of the older ones, a Hispanic guy around Joe's age, pulled over an extra floor cushion. "Things you manage to sneak by your little brother. I'm impressed."

"I meant Callie."

"Uh-huh."

"Nancy?" Kris said.

"Friend of ours," Joe said. "A real detective. Frank went head over heels for her, first time they met."

"Someone's asking for an ice bucket in his bed at midnight, I see," Frank said calmly.

That got laughter and giggles from the group. The little girl from earlier was curled up against Kris's side; she watched Joe with round, wide eyes. The feral-faced boy next to her also stared at Joe with obvious suspicion; he and the girl looked to be the youngest here. Those small, too-serious faces — Joe couldn't resist. He stuck his tongue out behind Frank's back, then smoothed his face over to casual innocence when Frank looked back. The little girl giggled.

No one else seemed to have noticed. Kris was running through names, ending with, "If you don't remember, it's okay to ask. We're outnumbered and these monsters know it."

"Rawwwwwwwr," another boy growled.

"What's all this?" Joe turned one of the papers around: a simple line drawing of a flower, the fluid line capturing the flow of curling leaves and petals.

"The crazy lady," another said, Rico, a young Black teen with large eyes and a lopsided smile, waxy burn scars covering the right side of his face. "She's got us drawin' flowers. She's _demented. _That's my word for today. _Demented."_

"Crazy lady?" Joe said.

"Jamie," Kris said. "You met her in the commons last night. She does art sessions here. She'll be here later."

Oh, really? That bit of information made Joe's heart lift. He looked at the drawing again. "Try drawing ugly flowers. Dried up and dead stuff."

…wait a minute…

Rico grinned. Kris gave Joe one of those _looks._ "Ooookay. I'm waiting for this explanation."

"Art student, right? The one who was painting dark bricks in a dark corner?"

Frank and a couple of the older kids laughed. "I should've known," Kris said. "You've got her nailed already. Dead ugly flowers, right up her alley, check."

Suspicious, Joe ran back through the conversation in his head. How had Kris known they'd met Jamie?

Her expression innocent, Kris met his gaze.

Great. She was going to play spooky again.

The cluster of kids and teens was just a casual homework session, nothing mysterious at all. The older ones were working through self-study to get their GED, and aside from the art project, there was also a storytelling fun-project going on. The guy who'd helped with the cushion, Carlos, was struggling with a college literature class and using the storytelling to help improve his English. Whatever reserve the "kids" had towards strangers was lost in the more important _needing-help-with-homework._

Frank started helping the GED students with untangling trigonometry. Joe got drafted into reading through stories and tossing ideas back and forth — which devolved into a horrific pun session between him and Carlos, and Carlos was soon advising him on classes and profs at SFSU ("Take Spanish, _ese. _ You'll need it out here, and the 101 TA is _hot_."). Something in Joe's chest eased; it was easy to smile and laugh here, surrounded by such earnest curiosity and chatter.

The group finding out that Dad really was a detective — that led to a flood of excited questions. Not forced, not faked, it just kind of happened…though they were disappointed that the Hardys didn't know Farrah Fawcett.

But the pieces of their stories that they let slip were heartbreaking. Rico had been eating out of dumpsters before being found by an outreach worker; he had long-term space in one of the dorm-style rooms upstairs. Carlos had aged out of the foster-system: "Hit eighteen and you're gone_, ese. _Fosters lose the support check, you're trash." He was part-volunteer, as well as one of the "kids"; Wings had helped him into halfway-housing and arranged for financial aid for SFSU. One of the GED students was a regular drop-in; her mother considered school a waste of time and the shelter was the only place the kid could work. And on, and on.

The little Hispanic girl and her older shadow stayed wary and shy, whispering between themselves in rapid Spanish. They kept staring at Joe, and he was careful to stay relaxed and casual and not focus on them; he remembered too well what Kris had been like at that age. God only knew what their story was, but if they were here, it couldn't be good. No, they had to make the first move.

"Hey, Kris." It was an older male voice from the rear door: Hispanic, curly black hair, rangy-thin, dressed in black with a priest's collar. "You in the middle of anything? I'm getting slaughtered out here. We could use a couple more to make the teams even." Head cocked, he eyed Frank and Joe.

"That's Father Manuel," Kris said to the brothers. "He's with Mission Dolores. Manny, they're new volunteers — Frank…Joe…"

The priest nodded, smiling. "Welcome to the chaos, guys."

"I call dibs on Frank," Rico said. "Rest of you can have Hawk. She's too _demented_ for me."

"They've got the jock pegged already," Kris said. "Um…that's a yes, Manny. Rest of you guys good?" That got a chorus of arguments over who was going to be on what team, settled when Father Manuel said they were drawing straws outside.

"We could use a ref," Father Manuel said to Joe.

Joe let Frank help him up. "I like watching. That doesn't mean I know the rules."

"Yeah, right," Frank said. "You should hear him shouting at the TV during the Knicks' games."

"Aw, man, you a _Knicks_ fan?_"_ Carlos said, grinning, to Joe. "Here I thought you were all right."

"C'mon, _Ritacita," _Kris said to the little girl curled next to her. "_¿Quieres ir afuera?"_ The girl nodded, let Kris pick her up, then whispered something in Spanish, pointing at Joe, then turning her face into Kris's shoulder. "_Está bien_, kiddo," Kris said. "She wants to know if you're coming outside, Joe."

Odd question. Joe nodded. "Yeah, I need outdoor time, too. Otherwise I shrivel up."

"I'll watch her," said the feral-faced boy who'd been whispering with the little girl. He kept giving Joe quick, darting glances. "She won't be no trouble."

"Thanks, Emelio," Kris said, then, to Joe, "He's her brother."

Not all went outside, only about half the group; the others scattered, chattering. The sun had come back out, the sky mostly clear. Out back, the basketball court was surrounded with mosaic walls in more bright colors and covered in thick vines of wild grape and clematis; trees lined the yard and fence, and a third of the open yard was devoted to a vegetable garden, staked out with handmade signs declaring what the plants were. Resigned to just watching, Joe eased onto a bench near the basketball court — but then Kris called a halt to the team-choosing.

"If you guys get Frank, we're claiming Joe for foul shots."

"You're stealing my secret weapon, Tag," Frank said.

"I know his aim," Kris said. "I need someone to make up for my bum foot."

"I sense a pizza bet coming on," Father Manuel said. "Losing adults buy pizza for both teams?"

"Deal," Joe called over. "We'll even spot you five points."

The younger kids giggled, with the older teens high-fiving each other. Kris gave Joe a sour look. "You have any idea how much these monsters can eat?"

"So make sure they get a lot of fouls." Joe relaxed on the bench as the game started. He was aware of the girl — Kris had called her _Ritacita_: "little Rita"? — and Emelio hanging out under one of the trees near the fence; they were still whispering and staring towards Joe, but now had a few other kids with them. Joe carefully not-watched them, keeping his apparent attention on the game…and noticed with another pang that Rita limped when she walked.

First foul, and Joe grinned as he limped out. Father Manuel held the crutch as Joe made both shots, first points, then the game halted until Joe limped off the court and back on the bench. Emelio's little group stared, and the whispering got more heated.

"So much for family loyalty," Frank said. "I should've dumped you in the Bay."

"Sorry, brother," Joe said. "Pizza's pizza."

"We'll take sausage," Kris said, "and lots of cheese."

"Speak for yourself, Tag," Joe said. "Tons of mushrooms."

Movement to Joe's left: Rita stood there, watching him with wide dark eyes. Protective and wary, eyes too old for that young face, Emelio stood over her; the boy's stance reminded Joe a lot of Frank at that age, whenever Joe had gotten in trouble.

Rita breathed something in Spanish. It sounded like a question.

"I'm sorry," Joe said. "_No hablo español."_

"She wants to know if you're really Hawk's brother," Emelio said.

How to explain…best keep it simple. "Uh-huh," Joe said, nodding. "The best kind, the kind you choose. She lived next door when we were kids, and we found out she'd been hurt really bad. So me and Frank adopted her. We've got a certificate and everything."

That resulted in another burst of Spanish between Rita and Emelio.

Then Rita spoke, soft, breathy English…

"Did a vampire hurt you, too?"


	14. Hot Blooded

_Too._

Joe went still. He couldn't have heard that. Not from this little girl, not from these kids. "A vampire?"

"Around your neck." Emelio's words tumbled out. "That's from a vampire, like they did to Rita."

Like someone did to this little girl? Now that he was close, Joe could see fading bruises and scabs on her neck and collarbone. It took Joe a moment to get his brain back in gear — if anyone deserved to be called a monster, Thatcher did. "Yeah," Joe said carefully. "A vampire did hurt me really bad. A vampire hurt you, too?"

Wide-eyed, Rita nodded, but then Joe's brain really caught up and went cold. "_They?"_

"Uh-huh," Emelio said. "They're all on that farm —"

"There you are!"

Rita and Emelio _eep_'ed and scurried away just as the woman who'd been painting in the commons last night, Jamie, swept up. In the sunlight, her hair shone a flowing gold, and Joe couldn't help noticing that her method of movement had nothing to do with walking. It was more like dancing, light-footed, light-hearted…

"I've been looking all over for you." Jamie gave him a dazzling smile. "Josh said he was sending me new minions. You were supposed to have presented yourself properly to my Evil Overlordship."

"I was?" Joe glanced towards Rita and Emelio. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He'd been "big brother" to Kris too long to discount stuff like that; even as kids, he and Frank had figured out that her belief in fairy tales was how she coped with those monsters she'd called parents.

"Hawk, you really have to do a better job of training him in proper Evil Protocols," Jamie said. "You need him right now? My plan to conquer the world requires his presence."

"Someone's buying pizza, after all," Frank said, grinning.

Kris sighed. "Jamie, Joe's an adult, last I checked. Ask him."

But Joe couldn't stop watching Emelio and Rita. They were whispering with the rest of their little group, with lots of furtive glances towards Joe. Kris had said she was worried about a couple of the kids here, but that it was a Child Protective Services thing. Vampires weren't handled by CPS, as far as Joe knew.

"You brought him here," Jamie said to Kris. "That means he's under your command. That's in the Evil Minion Handbook." Jamie gave Joe another bright smile.

Joe blinked. Beautiful woman, check. Smiling at him, definitely check. Beautiful — make that _gorgeous —_ woman wanting to drag him off somewhere…?

"I like to preserve the appearance of free will," Kris said. "It keeps morale up."

…and Kris had known he'd met Jamie already, and Joshua had told Jamie that he was sending them down…

That little _rat._

"Gotcha," Jamie said. "I'll play along. Okay, Mr. Fluffy Cute Evil Minion, I need your help in taking over the world — well, when I say 'help', I'm the Evil Overlord giving the orders and you just obey them like any good henchman. Please?"

It was probably the only time any Evil Overlord had said "please" to a henchman in any movie Joe had seen, though she couldn't mean that _cute,_ not with all his scars. Just part of whatever game she was playing. Joe glanced towards Rita and Emelio, still whispering with their little group. "Yeah. Sure."

"Y'know, for an Evil Minion, that didn't sound minion-ish," Jamie said.

"Maybe I'm not a minion." Joe decided to play along, until he figured out what she wanted. "Maybe I'm just using you for my own evil plot."

"Ahhhh," Jamie said. "So you're out to become an Evil Overlord, too? You need to work on your sinister trickery a little more."

"Actually, he's the naive farm-boy out to save the galaxy," Frank said, deadpan. "So that makes him your arch-enemy."

"I don't need your help," Joe said to Frank.

"Y'know, Jamie, " Kris said, "you could take both of 'em and have two Evil Minions for your plot."

Joe did not just hear that. He just did _not._

"Hey, that's fixing the bet," Father Manuel said.

"Evening the odds," Kris countered.

"As long as we get the pizza," Rico piped up, and the others laughed.

"Two Evil Minions and one Beautiful Evil Overlord." Frank smiled at Jamie. "I'm game."

"She didn't say she wanted two evil minions," Joe said. "Jamie, did you say anything about two evil minions? I didn't hear anything about two evil minions."

Frank lifted an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

Jamie gave Frank a long, considering look. "Tempting my Evil Overlord-ship, huh? But if the Fluffy Cute Farm-boy's really my arch-enemy, I don't want any witnesses to me seducing him to the Dark Side."

A gorgeous woman had turned _Frank_ down? Joe couldn't believe he'd heard that, but then his brain caught up and took control back. "Maybe I'm just pretending to be your arch-enemy so you'll seduce me. Maybe I'm really an evil minion hoping for some quick self-promotion straight to the top."

"Ooooo," said another of the older kids. "Can we watch?"

"Smooth, little brother," Frank said. "I'm impressed."

Joe was not going to commit fratricide. Not here anyway. Too many witnesses. No way to hide the body.

Jamie flashed Joe another of those dazzling smiles. "Confusing the issue. I like it. You're a worthy adversary, Mr. Fluffy Cute Farm Boy Arch-Minion. Let's go discuss this further, back in my lair."

That "cute" thing again. Definitely a line. But Joe managed to smile. Even if it was a set-up between Joshua and Kris, it promised to be interesting. "Lead on, Ms. Evil Overlord. Sorry to ditch you, Tag."

"No problem, big brother," Kris said. "Have fun conquering the world."

Jamie stopped to talk to Rita and Emelio's group, asking if they wanted to join the art session. Behind Jamie's back, Joe gave little Rita his best vampire-monster face, wiggling his index fingers in front of his open mouth for fangs. He was rewarded by not only Rita, but the other kids giggling — giggles that cranked up into full-scale giggle-fits when Jamie turned around and Joe put on a too-innocent-grin.

But Jamie got a round of head-shakes from the kids, and she led Joe back through the shelter and into a large open room that smelled like kindergarten: a mix of Play-doh, paste, chalk, markers, and books. A number of kids sat at desks in a semi-circle. Joe recognized most from the earlier homework group.

"Just sit here." Jamie dragged a chair over and up onto a wooden platform. "Take a pose that you can hold for about ten minutes." She eyed his crutch. "Do you want a more comfortable chair? I can steal one from the office."

"What am I doing?" This wasn't what Joe had imagined when a gorgeous woman said she wanted to drag him away.

Another of those dazzling smiles. "Them, art students. You, model. They draw. You sit and look cute." That got scattered giggles from the kids.

Joe stood there. So that was all she'd wanted. It had all been just a line. Between his hand, neck, and all the other scars, _cute _was the last thing he looked. He didn't want to be drawn, not like this.

Movement at the back caught Joe's gaze. Emelio and Rita had slipped in after all, snagged up an extra drawing pad and sharing a desk in the back corner. Decision made; Joe could deal with it. He sat, bowed his head so the scars around his neck weren't so obvious and crossed his arms to keep his left hand hidden.

"Do you always sit like that?" Jamie said, and Joe looked up. "Relax. Lift that handsome head of yours. They're just drawing you. They won't bite."

Easy for her to say. Joe raised his head enough to stare at the wall, though he kept his arms crossed. After the first minute, holding the same pose was boring, though two of the kids were close enough that he could watch. There was real talent there, one an elegant line drawing, the other a simple blocking of solid shadow and form. Jamie wandered among the desks, helping, suggesting, correcting proportion.

"Time," Jamie said, to a chorus of groans.

"That was only ten minutes," said one of the kids.

"He's a new model. He needs to stretch. I'll go get a better chair, Joe. Walk around a bit, then get your shirt off."

"Excuse me?"Joe said, but she'd already left the room. He couldn't have heard that right. He levered himself up with his crutch, stretched out the kinks in his back, then, curious, wandered around the desks. The skill level ranged from _total mess_ to _really good_, but the enthusiasm level was well above _fun_.

One, though, had Joe stopping: a teen about 15, slicked-back blond hair and pale white skin. He had smears of craft-glitter on his arms — and track marks. He worked on his drawing with deliberate, focused concentration, as if Joe was still up in the chair.

He had drawn Joe as a vampire.

Joe glanced; Emelio and Rita were watching him. "I'm a vampire?" Joe said to the teen drawing. The drawing was _film noir_-style, weird and Bela-Lugosi-ish.

The youth looked up: his eyes were black, as if all pupil. But he only shrugged, went back to his drawing.

Joe stared. What kind of drug did that to the eyes?

Noise clattered at the door. Jamie came back in, dragging one of the entry room chairs and her arms loaded with…well…stuff. A swath of white sheet, a staff topped with a paper maché skull, bright plastic flowers and fruit, ceramic vases. "You don't have your shirt off yet? For an evil minion, you don't follow orders very well."

"Sorry," Joe said. "Shirt stays on."

Quietly, behind him, "So this is where you went."

Joe turned, but the blond teen was focused on his drawing.

Jamie sighed. "Look, my Cute Evil Minion. You, model. Them, art students — there's nothing to it."

"I don't care." Joe limped back to the front. He wasn't about to show his ruined chest and back to anyone, let alone a room of kids. "I'm not taking my shirt off."

"Excuse us a moment," Jamie said to the watching kids. "Mr. Minion, can we talk out in the hall, please?"

Joe didn't move. "My name's Joe."

"Okay," Jamie said, smiling. "Joe-My-Evil-Minion, can we talk outside, please?"

Her expression reminded him of Claire, the way she'd looked at him, the way she…Joe clenched his hands around the crutch. He did not need to freak out, not here. The kids didn't need to see them arguing, either. Silently he followed her out.

"My shirt stays on," Joe rasped, before she could say anything.

"As much as I'd love to, I'm not asking you to get nude," Jamie said patiently. "That'd get us all in trouble. It's just a costume change. You'll have the sheet draped over you like a Roman toga. I want to give them fun stuff to draw."

The "nude" threw him. "Uh…"

She smiled again; Joe felt his heart skip. "Oh, I get it. You need bribery. You evil minions are all alike, I swear. Give you an inch and you want the whole throne."

"I don't want anything. You want me to model, fine." Though Joe wasn't exactly fine with that, either. "But I'm not taking my shirt off."

Still smiling, Jamie laid a hand on his chest, leaned in close. "Look, me, Beautiful Sexy Overlord. You, handsome male minion. Any normal guy would've had his shirt off by now."

…_Claire pressed up against him, running her hands over his chest…_

Joe knocked her hand away, barely missing her face; she jerked back. "So go find yourself a normal guy," he snarled, unnerved, backing up. "Leave me alone."

Dead silence answered that.

Joe limped away as fast as he could manage. He didn't want to be anywhere near her, nowhere in the same building. He was through the doors and into the entry room, then out the front doors to the Muni stop. A few other people were waiting there; Joe didn't meet their gazes.

Clenching the crutch so hard his hands were bloodless-white, Joe stood with head bowed, eyes squeezed shut, breathing hard. All he could see was Thatcher and Claire, all he could feel were their hands on his chest, his stomach —

"Are you all right, son?" An elderly black woman in a pillbox hat touched his arm. "You need help?"

It was just enough to pull Joe back. The woman reminded him a little of Alma. "I'm okay," Joe rasped. "Thanks."

He struggled to still his trembling. After all the fun of the last hour or so, getting hit with that…what was _wrong_ with him? If Jamie had asked his brother, Frank wouldn't have cared, would've gladly taken his shirt off and shown off for a beautiful woman. But Joe…just…anger. And he'd run.

Oh god, had he actually said that to her? He'd almost hit a gorgeous woman over _that?_

That was a new record: striking out before the game had even started.

No, be honest. It would never have started. She'd only wanted a model, after all. Even if…well, she would've gotten a real look at him, seen all the scars, and it'd be over, out, and down for the count.

The Muni train had pulled up, the KT heading back to Embarcadero; Joe pulled himself onto the crowded train. An old black man in a Giants cap sitting near the door took one look at Joe's crutch and slid over to make room. "You don't need to be fallin' all over us, boy, way this old bus jerks around."

"Thanks," Joe muttered.

The man took that as a cue to start a rambling one-way conversation about the Giants' new manager. Joe barely listened. He let his gaze wander the rest of the train compartment — the usual range of people, about what he'd expect in a big city public transport. One man caught his eye, a dark-haired olive-skinned guy in a leather bomber jacket, wide-brimmed leather hat, and sunglasses; the man seemed to be watching Joe.

Frank wasn't with him. Frank wasn't guarding his back. Joe was alone. Obviously alone. Crippled, helpless…

…_you wanna try the oh-poor-me act, good luck…_

Joe could still hear the scorn in Joshua's voice: weighed, judged, and found wanting, and Joe's hands clenched around the crutch again. No. _No._

Just another bus rider, that was all. The man was just watching people, like Joe was doing. It didn't mean anything. Nothing was going to happen on a crowded city bus.

Finally the train pulled into the below-ground Embarcadero station. Joe looked over the schedule; he could catch the Yerba line back — no, that would lead to questions about why he'd returned without Kris and Frank.

Joe's jaw tightened. He didn't need a baby-sitter. He'd had enough of that in Bayport.

Decision made. He hadn't explored the Wharf proper yet. Big tourist attraction, lots of people: he'd be safe enough. Joe maneuvered up the stairs to the plaza proper, heading towards the above-ground station to catch the F-Market line. Anything at this point, so he wouldn't have to think.

Joe settled against the metal rail of the stop, blinking against the bright sun and shivering as the wind picked up; the air was chilly, noisy with traffic and people. Then he stopped.

The leather-jacket man from the KT leaned on the rail opposite.


	15. Smoke from a Distant Fire

Frank hadn't thought he'd enjoy it as much as he did.

From what he knew about runaways and abuse, he'd been expecting a lot of scared, moody kids. Kris had been like that, back when. There was some of that, but for the most part, these were regular: laughing, chattering, and pulling every cheating trick on the basketball court they could think of — which Frank turned around on them half the time, and the other half, let them get away with.

It was impossible to reconcile Hammond's insinuations with this. Frank couldn't imagine subversives helping a runaway shelter. Such people just wouldn't work with such a place, period. It was too…well…mundane. No secrets, no connections, nothing to do with anything that such people would want to know. For that matter, there wasn't anything he could call cult activity, either, not by any stretch: no singing, no enforced activities, no preaching, and the kids seemed to be free to leave at any time.

But better, watching Joe: Frank hadn't seen Joe that relaxed and smiling in a while. Not since New Orleans, definitely. But there'd been something else, when Jamie had come out to shanghai Joe into whatever she was doing. Frank had seen Joe talking to little Rita and her protector, and wondered. Something had been up. The way the children had clung to Kris earlier had Frank suspecting these were the ones she was worried about.

Frank, Kris, and Father Manuel walked back into the day room, surrounded by a chattering mob making requests for pizza toppings to Kris (final score: "slaughtered" to "embarrassing"). "Joe owes me," Kris growled as she picked up the phone in the dayroom. "Ditching me like that."

"A good-looking girl versus pizza and basketball," Frank said. "Your point?" The phone had a hand-written sign taped to the wall above it: _If you make a long-distance call, please let the front desk folks know._

"We're talking Joe, right?" Kris said, then started speaking into the phone.

She had a point. Grinning, Frank chatted with Father Manuel (to Frank's surprise, the priest wasn't part of the Center and only looked confused when Frank brought it up) as he walked the room to cool. Windows were open, and it was a breezy day. Some kids — the ones who hadn't come outside, and others he didn't recognize — had drawing pads and pencils out, working to finish sketches. Frank stopped, eyeing the closest. So that's what Jamie had wanted.

Wait. If the sketchers were here, where was Joe?

Then again, Frank didn't see Jamie anywhere, either. Maybe she'd dragged Joe off for a private session. Oh, Frank was going to have fun with that when they got back to Center. So much for all Joe's moaning-and-moping about women running from his "horror show".

Frank frowned at the pose, though: Joe looked tense and unhappy. Maybe it was just that drawing; Frank wandered around the others. They ranged from good to complete chaos, but a couple not only caught form and pose, but also the subdued light, the space, character, and Joe definitely looked unhappy. That was odd: Joe had always been an attention-hound — one of the reasons he loved music so much — until…

…until. There'd been too many "until's" lately.

One artist was by himself in a corner, a pale young teen with slick-backed blonde hair and an intent expression. He huddled over his drawing, adding blocks of dark shading: a heavy-handed film-noir-style of Joe as a vampire. It wasn't a bad drawing, just odd: a movie-style vampire, reminding Frank of the psychotic police inspector, Stavlin, in Transylvania last summer and his costume get-up.

Though Joe had claimed the man was a real vampire…

Frank gave himself a firm inner shake. No, Stavlin was psychotic. The doctors had confirmed it. Period.

The teen hadn't even glanced up. Not wanting to disturb the concentration, Frank eased down next to him. "That's really good. Makes me wish Joe really looked like that, just so I could say I had a brother who's a vampire."

"He is," the teen said.

Frank's immediate reaction was _vampires-aren't-real_. He stopped himself just in time; nay-saying the kid's way of coping wouldn't help. "Well, yeah, sometimes Joe's a real pain in the neck. How'd you figure it out?"

"He's got the mark." The teen looked up; Frank throttled his startled reaction — the teen's eyes were completely black, all-pupil. "I'm going to be a vampire, too. So I know."

The chat had taken a slide into the scary. Mark — the rope scars around Joe's neck? "You are? How are you going to do that?" Frank kept his voice interested, as if he believed the teen. The teen shifted, and Frank noticed his arms: track marks and angry red blotches.

That made no sense. From what Frank had read, heroin didn't dilate the pupils like that, just the opposite. What was this kid _on?_

"Tac said. He never lies." The teen's attention fell back to the drawing. Another line, another block of heavy shadow. But Frank caught the kid's face; the kid was still watching Frank out of the corner of his eye.

_Tac. _Frank watched the kid draw for a moment. Track marks. He couldn't be more than fifteen. "Normally you have to die to become a vampire."

The teen shrugged.

Kris had come back into the room. Frank was about to call her over — the kid was stepping right into _spooky-stuff_ territory — but then little Rita and her older protector, Emelio, ambushed Kris again. Emelio's stance and expression cut to Frank's heart — it was so close to Joe's at that age, whenever he and Frank had been protecting Kris from the school bullies. The girl clung to Kris's side, and there was urgent whispered conversation.

"It'd be a real shame if you died," Frank said to the teen. There had to be some way to reach this kid. "You're a good artist."

The teen stared past Frank, towards Kris.

"I'd love to be able to draw like that." When, the teen didn't respond, Frank decided to risk a question. Try to draw him out. "Why do you want to be a vampire, anyway?"

Another heavy line, another block of shadow. "Tac says I have the mark, too." So soft, Frank barely heard it. The teen raised his head again, and despite the weird pupils, those eyes were full of intense, fierce anger. "So no one ever hurts me again."

Frank only met that gaze. There wasn't anything he could say. But…the mark again. Other than the track marks and needle scabs, Frank didn't see any scars: no marks, no bruises. Nothing visible, anyway. Maybe the kid didn't mean Joe's scars, then. But dear God, please don't let anyone else be targeting his brother…

The teen re-focused on the drawing.

"Who's hurting you? Someone here?" But the moment the words left his mouth, Frank knew he'd made a mistake: too pushy, too private.

Another shrug, _no-big-deal._

"If someone is," Frank said, trying to re-capture the teen's attention, "they shouldn't be. No one has a right to hurt you."

No response.

"Okay." No use trying any more, for the moment; any fragile trust gained had been lost when Frank had pushed. He was still a stranger to these kids. But he'd tell Kris, at least. "I'm Frank, by the way. Your vampire's my brother Joe."

"I know." Uncaring, unconcerned.

"Frank?" Kris stood near the door to the lobby; she jerked her head towards the door. Frank pushed himself up. "Joe left a while ago," she said when Frank got near. "Rita and Eme were freaking about it. Are you in the middle of something?"

Frank glanced towards the teen. "I'm not sure — wait, Joe _left?_"

"Eme said he and Jamie had a fight. Sandra saw him leaving. I called the Center. He's not there, either."

Joe had left. In this neighborhood, with gang members watching the place. And someone called 'Tac' was going to turn a kid into a vampire, a kid that claimed Joe was also "marked". Supposedly.

Somehow, Frank kept his voice calm. "Is there anything you can do to check?"

Dear God. He had not just asked her to do spooky stuff. He had _not._

Kris regarded him a moment. "I can try. C'mon."

Frank followed her to an empty room — it looked like a study lab: bookshelves loaded with encyclopedias, echoey tiles, long tables, chalkboard. "You're acting spooky again, Tag. _What_ can you try?"

She gestured him to a chair, as she pulled over another. "I can far-see a little, if I have a piece of what I'm targeting, I mean. If the connection's really strong. You and Joe qualify, there."

Her usual confusing explanation, but Frank thought he understood. Far-see — seeing things at a distance. But..a piece of what she was tracking? He'd tried reading _Real Magic_ last night, though he'd been so exhausted that it hadn't made much sense; there'd been something about that. "The law of association. I'm the piece."

"Frank, if you've memorized _Real Magic_ already, I swear I'm tossing Crowley at you next."

"_Aleister_ Crowley?" Frank could hear Aunt Gertrude's horrified lecture if she ever found out. Aunt Gertrude occasionally brought home church pamphlets on the evils of occultism, and Crowley's name was often highlighted in bold letters as the "most evil man in the world"…even though he was long dead.

Kris sighed. "Just stare out the window, big brother. Concentrate on that blue sky out there." With that, she settled into a lean against the table, laid a hand on his shoulder, closed her eyes.

She wasn't going to explain. Scowling, Frank turned his attention to the window, wondering if he'd feel anything. But no, nothing but the tagalong's hand. Blue cloudy sky, not much to watch. Seagulls drifted, spiraling on heat drafts. A fog bank rolled in — Frank watched, fascinated; it moved as if it was alive, a massive, rolling tidal wave of gray-white enveloping buildings, streets, sunlight…

Then…

…_a massive tsunami crested above him. He couldn't move, couldn't run, paralyzed in fear. Slowly, slowly, the water curved, then fell — thousands of tons of foaming black crashed down, crushed him into sand and rock. Blinded, struggling, tumbling, his mouth and lungs flooded with water, sand, salt. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe…_

Gasping, Frank jolted, and Kris collapsed; he caught her before she cracked her head on the table. It'd been _real._ He could taste the gritty, salty seawater; his lungs burned from lack of air. "What was _that?_"

A faint, fading image hung before his eyes: sharp teeth smiling…

Breathing hard, Kris was shaking her head, her hand gripping his shoulder for support. "I don't know, _I don't know!"_

"Kris?" Ruth stood in the doorway. "There's been an attack. Joe got tailed —" She paused. "Are you two all right?"

Oh God. "Is Joe okay?"

"Downs didn't say." Ruth hesitated, then decision altered her stance. "C'mon. I'll drive you both back."

Frank fought panic down as he helped Kris up. Both he and Joe had been tailed before. His brother knew how to handle it. Joe had always been better at thinking on his feet, the quick bluff, the spur-of-the-moment cover.

But that was before. Now Joe couldn't run, couldn't defend himself.

This couldn't be happening. Frank wouldn't let it happen. Not New Orleans. Not again.

But the image wouldn't go away: the massive wall of water and sharp teeth poised to bite…


	16. Devil's Gun

_**A/N: if you haven't noticed already, I'm trying to post every day on this tale; it IS finished. Also, to address a question sent by an anonymous guest: this is not the Frank & Joe of the books. My tales are based on the '70s show, "The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries" (with my own AU twist added), and the characterizations & descriptions of the brothers are rather different in the show. Check out the episodes on YouTube; you'll see what I mean. **_

_**On with the tale!**_

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The man from the KT was watching him.

Joe turned away. He wasn't going to freak. He was going to play it cool. Big city, busy stop. There were probably others from the same train here, too. Not that he was able to spot any of them at the moment, but still…

There was no good reason for anyone to follow him. This was only his second day here. Joe didn't know the man, didn't know _anyone_ here save for those he'd met at the Center and Wings.

Joe's gut wouldn't listen. He and Frank had been in New Orleans less than a day when they'd run into Thatcher, and barely over twenty-four hours when he'd…

No. _No._ This wasn't New Orleans. Bad enough Joe had snapped at Jamie. Freaking out just because someone happened to be waiting at the same bus stop was not an option.

His hands clenched around the crutch again. He wasn't going to turn around. No reason to watch the other man. No reason to make the man think Joe was a lunatic. The Embarcadero Muni pulled in, a overcrowded tourist streetcar, shiny with wood and metal. Joe crowded in near the door, braced himself against the crutch and grabbed the pole as the streetcar moved. He didn't have any particular plan in mind, but when the streetcar stopped at the Fisherman's Wharf sign, he couldn't resist.

Wide open space in the sunlight, ringed with benches, food stands, buskers and street performers spaced all around, the Bay glittering in the sun, the docks crowded with large tourist cruisers. Both sides of the street and Wharf were overloaded with gaudy restaurants and stores, lit with carnival lights and hung with bright banners, and the air smelled of deep-fried-everything, seafood, and salt water. Joe spotted something flashy and colorful moving at the center of a crowd gathered in the parking lot behind Boudin's and eased his way through to see.

Big, thumping funk and disco music pounded from a boom-box set to one side. A colorful group of dancers in bright oranges, reds, and blues were spinning and tumbling to the beat, their act as much acrobatics and juggling as it was actual dance. Enthralled, Joe watched, bouncing a little in time to the beat…

…which broke in a cold wave of fear when he spotted the leather-jacket man across the ring of people.

Once was chance, twice _maybe_ coincidence, three times conspiracy; Dad had said that to Joe and Frank often enough. So far, though, the man only seemed to be following Joe.

So far. Important point.

Joe shifted so that he was behind a cluster of middle-aged tourists snapping pictures. He and Frank had been tailed before. Joe could deal with this. He didn't have any idea who or why, but he could deal with the what. He hoped, anyway.

He studied the man as best he could across the crowd of bystanders and dancers. It wasn't any of the gang members who'd been hanging out near Wings. The guy was white; they'd all been black. Skinny, clean shaven. With the olive skin and dark hair, southern European, maybe. Age was hard to tell, between the distance and the sunglasses. The leather bomber jacket and hat looked high-quality, if well-worn, and those things weren't cheap. For that matter, the sunglasses looked like Ray-bans: not cheap either. Leather boots, tight-fitting jeans. Someone not with a gang, who'd followed him from the slum part of town, with enough money to dress like that, who'd bothered to follow Joe.

It was adding up to an answer Joe didn't like: the pimp who'd caused problems with Wings. Joe had heard too many stories from Dad about what criminals did for retribution. If the man was angry because of whatever had gone down yesterday at Wings, if he'd seen Joe with Kris and then took advantage of an opportunity — which Joe had handed him by storming off alone in the middle of the 'hood without telling anyone where he was going…

Wonderful.

Joe's immediate impulse was to get on the Muni and head back to the Center. But there was a long stretch of nothing between the Muni stop on Yerba Buena and the Center; he'd be an easy target. Joe forced himself to calm down, eyed the Wharf and surrounding street. Delaying tactics sometimes worked: the tail would get suspicious they'd been spotted or that help had been called and would usually drop trail.

Okay. Get some food, use the phone and bathroom, call for help.

Not a heroic plan, but Joe was more interested in survivability. Maneuvering through the crowd — muttering apologies as he struggled to keep his balance — he made his way across the street to a bagel shop with big windows and — important point — lots of potential witnesses. He ordered a bagel at random (what in the world was _smoked chipotle cheese?) _and a Coke, kept himself half-turned to watch the door.

The man stood right outside near a crowd of chattering tourists, and now watching Joe through the storefront windows. The man didn't seem to care that he'd been spotted.

Third time, conspiracy.

"Excuse me," Joe said to the girl handing him his order. "Is there a phone I can use?"

"Pay-phone across the street," the girl said. "Behind Boudin's."

"Wonderful," Joe murmured. He'd have to leave here to use it, then.

He sat down at the edge of window and wall inside the café, an angle that allowed him to watch the man. Joe forced himself to eat; fear made it hard to think.

Then whatever he was chewing _hit. _ Joe choked, spluttered, gulped half the Coke down in reaction; his mouth burned with spice. It took a few moments before he could breathe without coughing, and he gripped the table until he was sure of his lungs.

The innocent-looking bagel sat on the tray. Joe picked it back up and this time took a smaller, careful, respectful bite.

The man was still watching.

Joe's brain finally caught up. He'd done magic in New Orleans, just on gut instinct, magic that had helped bring Thatcher and Claire down.

He was worried about a _pimp?_

Then again, Joe didn't think anyone at the Center would be happy with him flashing magic in a public place, but if it meant a difference between his life and a bit of publicity…

He couldn't believe he was thinking this. He didn't like violence. He'd always relied on charm and guile to get things done. Confronting the man was _not_ what Joe wanted to do, not at all. Still…

Memory: him and Frank in Egypt last fall before the Kenya case and Frank's plan that'd nearly gotten them thrashed by angry Texans: con a con-man by out-conning him, intimidate a bully by out-intimidating him. Hopefully, it held true.

Okay. Time to use his brain for a change. Joe finished off the last of the bagel and the Coke, pushed himself up and out of the café, and then stopped just outside the door to face the man.

Eyebrow raised, the man stood there, waiting.

Joe had done this by accident at the beach back home; time to overdo it deliberately. He let his stance settle, then mentally reached _down_ and pulled up from the earth until he could see the glow. Hopefully others would think it was just a trick of the light. Hopefully.

His bluff needed a final touch. Some of those impressive words he'd heard Kris chatter about back when, toss in some of Chet's Dungeons and Dragons nonsense, a bit of Tolkien…

"I should warn you," Joe rasped. "You're up against a thirty-third level Enochian necromancer. A real master of the dark arts."

The man cocked his head. He didn't seem too surprised by someone glowing in the middle of Fisherman's Wharf.

Then again, this was San Francisco.

Then _again, _passers-by were definitely reacting, startled whispers loud enough for Joe to hear that they were trying to figure out how he was doing it.

"Are you, now?" the man said.

Joe let the magic fade, then waited. Please, God, let the man decide that Joe was too much to handle right now. On a hunch, Joe let his eyes relax, just as he had in the Center.

The man's leather jacket and hat _glowed_, vibrant purple-black.

_Y'know,_ his memory piped up, right at the wrong moment, _Frank didn't cause that bar brawl in Egypt. _You _ticked off the wrong people._

Like he needed to remember that important detail right now. Where was Frank when Joe really needed him?

Then the man smiled.

Joe kept very, very still, as his brain _eep-_ed and fled.

Sharp, pointed incisors.

The man turned and disappeared into a crowd around another set of buskers at the street corner.

Joe collapsed back against the wall. He would not freak. He would not. Vampires didn't exist. They did not.

Yeah. Right. Magic hadn't existed, either.

…_Inspector Stavlin, in handcuffs, had been talking to Dad and the Romanian police, Stavlin insisting that he was the descendant of Vlad Dracul, that he was a real vampire. Everyone else had laughed, but Joe had stared at a nearby mirror. Stavlin had no reflection. No one else had seen anything odd; no one had believed Joe, and Frank had ragged Joe about it for weeks…_

_Stop._ The man was wearing an actor's prosthetic, that was all. It had to be.

_Did a vampire hurt you, too?_

Vampire or not, real or not, Joe had been granted a bit of breathing room. Deal with the situation, then freak. He pushed away from the café-front and crossed the street, found the pay-phone. He fumbled with the change, punched Mar's number. No answer.

Just great. Joe didn't know any other number for anyone else there, and he didn't know how the Center was listed in the directory, so operator assistance was out. So now he was left with only two options — either head back or stay here and wait for the man to make whatever move he was planning.

Anger was growing in Joe's gut, right next to the fear, fueled by the memory of little Rita asking him if he'd been hurt 'too'.

Three times, conspiracy. Rita asking him about vampires, that teen drawing a vampire, and now Joe was being followed by someone with pointed teeth. Coincidence on that level? Not likely.

Decision made.

Joe couldn't see the man anywhere, but that didn't mean anything. He limped back down the crowded street, back to the Muni stop, keeping a careful eye on the people around him, and grabbed the first street car back to Embarcadero Center, then to Yerba Buena. Joe didn't spot the man anywhere in either Muni, but his gut still wouldn't shut up. Something was off, something was wrong.

Finally the light-rail dropped Joe off at the stop down the hill. No one else got off, and Joe breathed out in relief. He glanced at his watch: about five. With luck, he'd beat Frank and Kris back. Joe started limping up the hill, but he still couldn't relax. The quiet walk surrounded him in green and stonework, sky and asphalt, the Bay sparkling in brilliant light-shatters to his right.

But everything was too quiet. It was just him out here, and he wasn't making much noise — shouldn't he be hearing birds or something?

Behind him, something scraped the pavement. Quiet, quick, barely there.

His heart jumped. No, he wasn't going to turn. Not yet. Joe kept moving as if he hadn't heard, but listened hard. He couldn't tell, couldn't be sure.

He reached the crest of the hill, let gravity take over and pull him into a faster pace. His legs were going to hate him later, but he didn't care, as he hit the edge of the gravel driveway.

Metal clicked behind him, like a gun being cocked…

Joe rounded, flung his arm out. As in New Orleans, the power was just _there, _flashing out in an instinctive throw of energy that sent him to his knees in sudden, crushing exhaustion. A visible shockwave sliced the air, rippled the grass, branches, trees —

— parted around the leather-jacket man.

"You need to study your vocabulary more," the man said.

_Something_ arced towards Joe, a massive dark tidal wave rising up, cresting, breaking — Joe yelped, scrabbled back, losing his grip on his crutch.

The wave crashed down, smashing him into the gravel —

— as light and heat flared at his left wrist, with a sharp _crack_ of shattering stone.

Noise erupted behind him. Coughing, fighting to breathe, Joe wheezed air into his lungs, made it to his elbows. Three people pounded up, Joshua and another that Joe didn't know: a tough-looking Hispanic man, thin mustache, wiry black hair slicked back. And Downs.

"Jesus _wept_, _chè!"_

"I got tailed." Joe struggled up. The man — vampire — whatever — was nowhere to be seen. The turquoise nugget, Kris's gift, lay in pieces in the gravel around his left hand, the leather braid scorched black and crumbling.

Joe's wrist was ringed in red, painful blisters.

"Angel, circle and fade, clock," Joshua said; both Joshua and the Hispanic man had guns out. "I got counter. Harold, get Joe inside."

"Oh, gladly," Downs said.

Angel took off down-slope, vaulting a small stone fence…then wasn't there. Joe stared, but Downs was hauling him to his feet.

"Move it, bait. We don't need any more dead chipmunks."

Joe jerked away. "I can walk."

But Downs had too tight a grip and hauled Joe down the gravel drive and through the Center's doors, then shoved him down onto a nearby chair. Joe couldn't resist; exhaustion was beating him down.

"No time for the baby to play," Downs snarled. "Lucky you got the butterfly panting after your ass,because you wouldn't be part of any _real _Blade team." Then he was back out the doors.

"Joe?" Mar, from the landing; she and another man pounded down the stairs.

Joe shoved to his feet, wavered, but managed to stagger back outside. He was not going to play helpless. But even that movement made his vision gray out, and, panting, he collapsed against the outside wall as Mar and the other man came outside. The newcomer was stocky and well-muscled, shaved bald and in a black t-shirt and jeans; his arms were seamed with scars, his left sleeved in an intricate dragon tattoo encircling a Star of David.

"What happened?" the man growled.

"Joe, this is Drake," Mar said.

Great. The Blades' fight trainer. Just what Joe needed. "I got tailed. I think it was the pimp who attacked Wings yesterday."

Both Drake and Mar turned, scanned the area, then Drake took Joe roughly by the arm. "Inside."

Joe jerked away again. "I'm not helpless!"

"No, you're not," Drake said. "But you're overuse-shocking, and you're our only information source. _Inside."_

"I see he doesn't follow orders, either." Harold Downs, a lazy, sarcastic drawl. He and Joshua were coming back towards the Center.

"You don't have any right to give me orders," Joe snapped.

"Nothing out there but seagulls," Downs went on, ignoring that. "Just another attention-begging brat tying up our people to babysit."

"It's called 'getting recon'," Drake growled. "Which you have no business forgetting, _Blade."_

"It was major," Joshua said to Drake, as he handed Joe back the crutch. "Real bad juju, judging from the mess. We need to figure out what that was, fast."

"It was a vampire," Joe said.

That got everyone staring. Downs rolled his eyes.

"A vampire," Joshua said.

"Well, he had pointed teeth," Joe said. "They looked real enough."

"Wonderful," Joshua sighed, shaking his head. "Just what we need."

"The Cabal's messing around again," Downs said. "Assuming anything's out there at all. Figures you'd panic over a teeny-bop prank, _bait."_

"He wasn't a teenager," Joe said, from clenched teeth. "An older man. Bomber jacket, leather hat. Maybe in his thirties. Looked Egyptian, maybe southern European."

"What," Downs sneered, "no tuxedo? No big swirling cape and pale skin?"

"Joe," Mar broke in calmly, "where did he follow you from? Just the stop?"

"The shelter. He tailed me on the Muni." Joe wasn't sure how much longer his legs would hold out; he was starting to shake. Mar gripped his shoulder, steadying him.

"Kris and Frank didn't come with you?" Joshua said.

Joe shook his head.

"Don't tell me you believe him, butterfly," Downs said. "The Cabal's pranked us before."

"Call Wings and give Hawk a heads up that she might get a tail. That's an order,"Joshua snapped, when Downs opened his mouth. "_Now."_

Throwing up his hands, Downs went inside without a word. Angel re-appeared from the right edge of the building.

"Somethin' was ghostin' out there," Angel said as he got close, a growling Hispanic accent. "Boned out now." He eyed Joe. "Makin' things interesting already, newb. Oh yeah, you'll fit right in."

"Happy to help," Joe said.

"Okay, people," Joshua said. "Mar, get Eli and get our web amped so _nothing_ sets foot without our knowing it. Drake, grab whoever's been slacking lately—"

"Like you?" Drake said.

Joshua ignored that. "— and do a bit of ghosting. Keep an eye out for Hawk and Frank. Make sure the tail doesn't come back to try to wipe the place. Do _not_ confront whatever it is. Just keep eye. And _you,_ darlin', you're going first to Trevor and then I want full details. Angel, you're with Drake."

Details? What more details did he want? Uncertain, Joe only stood there, despite Mar's attempts to steer him inside. He'd given Joshua all the information that mattered.

"Aye, aye, _Sarge,"_ Angel said, with a lazy salute.

"Watch it, Halo," Joshua said. "Or I'll start scrawling your number in the Outlook's bathrooms."

"Do it and I'll pass _yours_ to my favorite whores."

"Oh, good," Joshua said. "Been a while since I've talked to your mama. Move, people."


	17. Fire & Rain

**_A/N: Thanks to DuffyBarkley, Xenithia, ChrisDaughterofApollo, & SnowPrincess88 for the reviews - oh, and check out Snow's tales; she also does the '70s show fic!_**

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The drive was too long. Too much traffic. Too many red-lights. Fuming in the back of Ruth's Jeep, Frank watched the passing streets. He had to stay calm. Getting upset wasn't going to help.

Sharp teeth smiling through a wall of black water. A runaway claiming to be a vampire. Joe was "marked", and now there'd been an attack…

Probably best just to ask the question and get it over with. "Do vampires exist?"

Kris stared. "You're asking _what?"_

Well, if there was ever an indication about the disquieting mess Frank had been going through since New Orleans, that question was it, but she didn't have to draw attention to it. "Tag…"

"Okay, okay. Define the term, big brother."

"_Tag…"_

Kris sighed. "You mean a creature that drinks blood? Bela Lugosi? A corpse crawling out of its grave? Or that lunatic cult in L.A.?"

"Not just L.A.," Ruth said. "Sam said the bunko squad's run into 'em here, too."

"A cult of _vampires?"_ That had the sound of a story Frank didn't want to hear. Not yet, anyway.

But now Ruth was pulling into the gravel drive of the Center; the answer could wait. Frank was out of the Jeep before it stopped and started to head for the Center, but Kris went to the edge of the drive, staring around.

Frank came up behind her. Something had torn through the plants, saplings, and stonework; gravel had been sprayed up, violent enough to expose bare dirt. The stones around the divot bore scorch marks, the bare dirt marked with scrabbles and heel-digs as if someone had tried to get away. Frank turned, taking in the destruction. No shattered glass or metal, no tire marks, no paint scrapes on the stone — not a car wreck, then…

Scattered in the gravel were pieces of shattered turquoise and burnt leather braid: the braid that Kris had sent, that Joe had taken to wearing.

"Don't." Kris grabbed Frank's wrist as he reached for it. "Just like a crime scene, big brother — don't contaminate the evidence."

"_Oye, Hawk!"_ That came from the trees. A tough-looking Hispanic man slid down the crumbled stonework across the road and jogged towards them. "Get inside. Josh's waitin' for you."

"What happened?"

"Is Joe okay?" Frank broke in.

"Considerin' he's got Butterfly bustin' his ass at the moment, I don't know how okay he'll _stay." _Up close, the man was a head taller than Kris, wiry black hair slicked back into a tight tail, arms sleeved in religious tattoos. "But for the moment, yeah. _¿Éste es el hermano, plumacita?_"

"Angel, spit it out!"

Arms raised in fake surrender, the man backed off. "Hey, take it up with Sarge, not me." He eyed Frank. "Oh, yeah. This'll be great. I can see it already."

"Glad to oblige," Frank said. Couldn't anyone around here tell a story straight?

Scowling, Kris crossed her arms. "Frank, this is Angel."

"Any cracks about halos and I bust teeth." Quieter, "He picked up a tail from Wings. We think it was that pimp from yesterday. He ghosted before we could ID."

"Wonderful," Kris muttered. "Bet Josh was happy about that."

"Oh, yeah. Your pretty white boy nearly got capped. You want more, yell at Josh_." _Angel bared teeth at Frank; it looked like a grin. "_Bienvenido al manicomio,_ newb."

_Welcome to the madhouse. _Just what Frank needed. He and Kris threaded their way through the commons; people were huddled in small whispering groups, and nervousness and shock sparked through the room. But one detail snagged Frank's attention. "Why the bracelet?"

"The protections probably got overloaded by the attack." She sounded distracted; she didn't even turn. As if it was no big deal.

One of her usual explanations-that-made-no-sense…wait… "There's_ magic_ on those things?"

"Um…yeah?"

"You didn't tell us." Frank didn't mean it to sound accusing, but…

"We weren't hiding it. Didn't Joe pick up on it?"

Frank wasn't going to get angry. He was going to wait for her to explain.

But Kris only pushed open a door to a ground-floor room: filing cabinets, a battered leather couch and chairs, loaded bookshelves, papers scattered over a battered oak desk, all watched over by a large painting in brilliant yellows, golds and reds: a fierce Black archangel with an upraised sword of fire.

Holding an ice-bag around his wrist, Joe was sprawled on the couch. He looked even more haggard than he had that morning. "Glad you could join the party," he said to Frank. "I would've sent an invitation, but I was kind of getting attacked at the time."

Little Brother and Tagalong: Frank wasn't sure who to strangle first. Joe alive, quipping, and in one piece: check. Fine, Little Brother could wait; time to bust Tagalong. "Magic bracelets. Start talking."

Kris made an impatient noise. "Your dad was listening to our phone chats. I didn't know if he was reading your mail, too. I didn't want to say anything openly and get you in more trouble."

Okay. That made sense. Frank would get on Joe's case later, in private.

"Did I miss something?" Joe said.

Then again… "Other than you not telling me there was magic on those bracelets and you almost getting _killed _because you went off on your own, no, you didn't miss a thing!"

"Frank…"

"There's magic, and_ you don't tell me?"_

"I didn't think it was important!"

"It saved your life," Joshua said from the door, "judging from that mess out front. I'd say it was pretty important." He shoved a bottle of Gatorade and two bananas at Joe. "Eat, _chè_. Don't argue. You're still overuse-shocky."

He was interrupted by Downs leaning in the doorway. "Area's clear. Ruth said _that_ one left without telling anyone. So where were you all that time, bait?"

"Thank you, Harold," Joshua said. "I'll handle it."

"I'm sure you will, Butterfly," Downs said, with a sneer at Joe, then left.

"He's begging to be up front of Council," Kris said, to Joshua.

"You missed him ticking off Drake," Joshua said. "Session tonight's going to be sooo fun."

Frank was not going to get sidetracked. "You sent me one of those things, too," he said to Kris.

"Hawk," Joshua said, as Kris opened her mouth, "outside. Full scan on that mess. Grab Angel for backup."

"_Angel?!"_

"Don't start, girl_. _Move. Before they erase traces."

Frank scowled as Kris left. Great. Joshua wanted to talk alone — another verbal beat-down. Worse, he and Joe were tangled in something _again_.

"If either of you want a desk," Joshua shoved papers aside to sit cross-legged on top the desk and gestured Frank towards another of the armchairs, "I'll give you this one gladly. Last thing I am is a desk jockey."

"Uh — deal," Frank said; Joshua didn't sound angry. Maybe it wasn't a beat-down. "I'll take it now, if you want."

"_Chè, _you want this monstrosity, it's yours. We'll wrestle it up after dinner." Joshua paused. "Kris did warn you about dinner, right?"

"About the lizard that trashed Tokyo doing the cooking, yeah." Joe touched his wrist, _ow'_ed, put the ice bag back on it, then went back to trying to peel a banana one-handed; the skin of his wrist was red and blistered, shiny with gel. "She keeps saying something about 'sushi' but won't tell us anything else."

"You want to get on his good side," Joshua said, "call him _Gojira_, not Godzilla. Of course, he'll then talk your ear off about all the nuclear bomb allegories inherent in decades of monsters trashing Tokyo, but it's a small price to pay for peace."

Every-day small-talk, as if what had happened wasn't anything to worry about…and another neat side-step around the whole 'sushi' thing. Frank managed a smile. Not a verbal beat-down, then.

"About the bracelets," Joshua said to Frank. "Yes, they have protections on them. Me and Kris put 'em there. We had to."

"_Had_ to?"

"You were ground zero at major blood magic, _chè_. It leaves…well…a residue." Joshua raised his hand, as both Frank and Joe opened their mouths. "We weren't _expecting_ anything to happen. There's over a thousand miles between New Orleans and Bayport, and any number of boundaries and waterways — that's enough to confuse any trail."

"A trail for what?"Joe said.

A slight hesitation. "Things get attracted to crap like that. Magic vultures, if that makes sense. We didn't want to take chances."

Frank scowled. "But Joe's the Gifted one. I'm not."

Joshua raised an eyebrow.

"He said it, I didn't," Joe said.

"Uh-huh." Joshua settled back. "Gifted doesn't matter, _chè_. You share blood. DNA. You're not only brothers, but best friends. That's a major connection, a connection so strong that when _one_ of you was lured by Thatcher's dolls, the other followed —"

"You're saying someone can use me against Joe," Frank said. _Real Magic_ had said the same thing, in a lot more words.

"Can," Joshua said, "and _has. _That's exactly what happened with those voodoo dolls. Then that SOB turned around and used Joe the same way. Used him and called you right out into the line of fire."

"That wasn't magic," Frank said. Joe wasn't looking at them.

"It was," Joshua said. "Magic so…so…_common_…that no one thinks of it as magic. If Thatcher had used Vão like that, would you have broken cover?"

"Yes," Frank said. "It was the only way to get me and Tag within striking distance of those stands."

There was a pause.

Frank shifted. Joshua was looking at him, and Frank couldn't decipher his expression.

"Rethinking who you bet on?" Joe said dryly.

Joshua blinked, then laughed. "Kris told you about that? Nope, not at all. Anyway, the bracelets. We didn't want to chance something else coming along while you were still vulnerable, Joe. Those bracelets were the best option. And _you_, handsome, start wearing yours. Once Joe's trained enough, we'll work on something heavier and tailored."

"One double-breasted magic suit, coming up," Joe muttered. "Blue pinstripes. Match your eyes."

Tailed, attacked, probably freaking, and Joe was still Mr. Snark. But Joshua sounded as if he _expected_ them to get attacked. Them, personally. Frank could see the reasoning once he and Joe started doing actual work, but now?

Joshua was grinning. "That's it. Give me an image to daydream about." He pushed himself off the desk, went over to a mini-fridge tucked in the corner, pulled out a couple beers, offered one to Frank.

Well, Joshua was back to the flirt-teasing, anyway. But Frank shook his head. "I don't drink."

More like _couldn't_, not after growing up with all the Scottish-Irish relatives on both sides. Not after seeing how hard certain of them did their drinking. Not after he'd gotten violently ill, after Grandpa had given him a bit of whiskey at Mom's wake.

Joshua lifted an eyebrow, but put the second beer away, handed Frank a Coke instead, then settled back onto the desk. "Joe, darlin', start drinking that Gatorade, or I'll take the pleasure of pouring it down your throat." Joshua leaned forward, hands on his knees. "And with that said…" He paused, then sighed. "I owe you both an apology."

Frank hadn't expected that. Joe raised his head.

"Me taking over, it's been one stressed-out damn-all mess_._ I dumped it all on your heads, unfairly and uncalled for. Joe, me calling you out as _oh-poor-me_ was wrong-headed and wrong-hearted. And Frank, the last thing you are is stupid. I was wrong to escalate it like that, over a misunderstanding."

Open, honest, sincere. Frank hadn't expected this. Not from Joshua, who'd refused to apologize for his blow-up in New Orleans, though — Frank had to admit — that had been justified. Mostly.

"Let me guess," Joe said. "Mar threatened to put you through her _kata_ if you didn't apologize."

Frank looked at his brother: maybe only Frank had heard the anger in Joe's voice, but Joshua was trying to apologize.

Joshua sighed again. "I deserved that. Fine, I'll go further. I was a jerk, you did not deserve any of this morning, and you're both two gorgeously handsome and intelligent guys. Now, is that enough, or are you going to reduce me to groveling, here?"

"At least get him to buy us lunch," Frank said to Joe, trying to needle his brother out of whatever had set him off.

"Asking me for a date already, handsome?" Joshua said, grinning. "Deal."

"You won't say that when you see how much Joe can eat."

Joe gave Frank a dirty look. "I can negotiate lunch without your help."

Frank relaxed; Joe sounded normal again. Meltdown averted.

Joshua laughed. "I see why Kris was so happy about you two coming out here. And now that I've flirted, apologized, tried to get you drunk, and still don't have you in my evil clutches," Joshua fixed Joe with a _look_, "back to business. The story, beautiful. All of it."

Slow, halting, Joe got the story out, glancing at Frank all through it as if daring him to challenge it. Frank only listened, clamping down on his ingrained _that-makes-no-sense_ reaction to spooky stuff. Now he couldn't blow any of it off as Joe's over-active imagination.

But…someone pretending to be a vampire, just to tail Joe?

…and a kid at Wings claimed someone would turn him into a vampire…

"An Enochian necromancer," Joshua muttered. "Jesus wept, darlin', you don't do things half-way, I'll say that. Do you even know what any of that means?"

Frank's jaw tightened at Joshua's tone. They'd just hit the verbal beat-down.

Joe looked mutinous. "The Necromancer's from Tolkien. An evil wizard."

"No," Frank said, before he could stop himself. "It's someone who uses death magic. Like Thatcher."

"I did take Latin, y'know," Joe said irritably. "I know that."

"If you knew, then _why…"_ Joshua cut himself off and took a deep breath. "You're new to this. I'm going to keep repeating that to myself."

"I was trying to scare him off," Joe said. "I didn't have a lot of time to consider alternatives."

"Understood, _chè. _But major problem number two: you've complicated the motives. You walked up to another Gifted and bragged about using death magic. Care to take a wild shot at what that means?"

Major problem number _two? _"He might've been targeting a threat," Frank said, watching his brother.

Joshua nodded. "Or a rival. Rogue Gifted are some of the most amoral SOBs out there. Machiavelli had it right. Congratulations, you may have gotten another Thatcher after that gorgeous ass of yours."

"Wonderful," Joe muttered.

Frank scowled. Just what they needed to hear.

"Now…confronting the man, bluffing out of a bad situation, all good. But know what it is you're bluffing before you use it, all right? Ignorance works with the unwashed masses, not with other practitioners."

"We don't know why he tailed Joe, though. It couldn't have been the pimp. Joe said he was white." Frank stopped; Joshua had raised an eyebrow. "Uh…I mean, Kris said Hunter's Point was the ghetto, and the gangs we saw were black, so if he's working there, that means he'd have to be black, too…"

Joshua grinned. "Easy, handsome. I'm yanking your chain. You're right. There's all colors of gangs here, but the Point's the Black 'hood."

Well, it didn't sound as if Joshua was angry at Frank, at least.

But then Joshua turned on Joe. "So, with _that_ said…major problem number _one_. _Why did you attack the man?"_

"_What?"_

"You can't be serious," Frank said; he had to cut this off, fast. "That SOB tried to kill him!"

"After Joe attacked _first,_" Joshua said. "Answer the question, Joe."

Joe glared. "He had a gun!"

"He shot at you?"

"I heard it being cocked!"

"You've got to be kidding —" Joshua cut himself off again, breathed out. "I'm trying to stay calm here. I'm really trying. Did you actually see a gun?"

"Well…no, but…"

"Have either of you had firearms training?"

"I have." Frank had to say it, and hated himself for it. "Joe, guns don't need cocked. They don't make sounds like that."

"But they do on —"

"_Chè_, if the words _'but they do on TV'_ leave your mouth," Joshua said, "I'll put you on permanent KP duty."

Glaring at Frank, Joe clamped his mouth shut, his hands clenched on the sofa cushion.

"The real problem," Joshua growled. "You heard a noise behind you, and hauled off with the magic equivalent of an Uzi."

"Josh, the man was tailing me. You should've seen the magic around the guy. It looked just like Thatcher's!"

"You didn't see anyone get off the Muni with you," Joshua overrode him. "As far as you knew, you were alone on the road. You didn't know who it was until _after_ you attacked. It could've been a jogger, a kid on a bike, anybody. _Are you seriously that out of control?"_

Frank wanted to snap back, wanted to launch himself at the man bullying his brother — Frank's own hands clenched on the chair as he held himself silent. He remembered what had happened on the beach, and that hadn't been the first time. Joshua was right.

"I'll spell it out for you, darlin'," Joshua said. Cold. Hard. "If you'd done that with a gun, you'd be looking at assault with a deadly weapon, if you were lucky. And the judge would be nowhere near as nice as I'm being."

"He's right, Joe," Frank said.

Oh, the look on Joe's face. "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"I am," Frank said quietly, "but that doesn't mean covering up the problem. It means I help you fix it."

Joe looked away.

Joshua cocked his head at Frank, nodded, then turned back to Joe. "Now," Joshua said, deceptively quiet. "You know where I'll be, after we're done here?"

Joe said nothing.

"I'll be up front of Council. They want to know what happened. And I'll have to explain that the guy I recruited, the guy that certain folks have been telling me to not touch with a ten foot pole — that he tried to kill a total stranger, for no reason other than hearing a noise behind him."

Council. Of which Harold Downs was part, according to Mar. Downs, who led the vocal minority against Frank and Joe being here and being Blades.

Joe closed his eyes, then pushed himself to his feet, hands clenched on his crutch and not looking at either Joshua or Frank. "I'll save you the trouble. I'll leave."

"Joe." Frank pushed himself up, but Joe shrugged him off.

But then Joe hit the door, and stopped. Frank watched; the door didn't move — Joe struggled with it, twisting at the knob.

"You're not leaving," Joshua said. "There ain't no magic you can pull that'll undo that door until I'm done, darlin'. Sit down."

Joe didn't move. "Let me go."

"No." Joshua's voice was steel. "I am _not _going to explain to Council why I let a dangerous, out-of-control Gifted leave without taking care of the matter."

Frank went cold. "Take care of _how?"_

Joshua ignored that. "Sit or stand, Joe. Your choice. But you're not leaving."

Joe still didn't move, still didn't turn around, only stood there, his back to Joshua.

"Fine," Joshua said. "So, what I'll also explain to Council. How I spent three months stateside after my tour in 'Nam, going bat-shit every time I heard a noise. How Kris spent her first few months here, freaking every time anyone over the age of ten _looked_ at her. I'll be explaining post-traumatic stress. Vietnam Syndrome."

Now Joe turned around. "You…_what?"_

Joshua settled into a lean against his desk. "Then I'll explain that said Gifted is not going to leave the grounds by himself for the next month or so. That he'll always have someone with him and that he'll be undergoing counseling."

"I don't need babysitters." Joe's voice shook.

"You do," Joshua said, not giving an inch. "Until we're sure you're not going to go off again just because someone looks at you cross-wise."

…_you've been recruited…we know some things about them, not as much as we'd like…_

Frank knew what Joshua meant, but couldn't relax. It was a typical tactic of cults: cut the recruit off from the world, limit their contact, control all their activities.

Then again, Mar had all but shoved them out the door this morning.

Then _again…_counseling. That meant a shrink. Here, in a place of telepaths, people who — according to Kris — could control others' thoughts and emotions.

Then again, _again_…counseling, here, where they had to be used to dealing with problems like Joe's, and they'd helped Kris, after all…

"Frank, I'm not putting that restriction on you. But I can't count you as one of Joe's babysitters, either. We don't know if the tail was specifically for Joe or aimed at the Center in general, and I'd prefer someone who's able to handle it." Joshua's mouth quirked. "And yes, Kris counts as 'able to handle it'."

Slowly, Frank nodded, his suspicions easing. "I understand."

"I know you do, _chè._" Joshua's gaze settled back on Joe. "You're not the first Gifted who's come to us with problems. You won't be the last. That's what the Association's _for."_

Joe said nothing, hands still clenched around his crutch.

"I told you in the hospital that you would have help," Joshua said. "But no one can help you until you admit there's a problem. _And firing a magic Uzi just because you think someone is following you is a goddam problem."_

Joe bowed his head. "You have to tell Council."

"I don't have a choice." Joshua's voice had gone back to cold and harsh. "Consequences can't be avoided."

"I know," Joe said, subdued. "I'll come with you. I'll tell them what happened."

Silence.

"_Chè,"_ Joshua said, more gently, "no. There's no need. You'll just put yourself through a lot of hassle that you don't need right now. Me and Mar'll handle it."

Joe raised his head. "Mar says that when you do something wrong, you make it right. I'm not letting someone else take the fall for something I did."

Even longer silence.

Finally, Joshua nodded. "Okay, then. Come on."

"I'll come, too," Frank said.

Joe stopped. "But you said —"

"I said I'm on your side. I'll never stop being your brother." Frank gripped Joe's shoulder. "I'll never let you face trouble alone."


	18. Landslide

Joe's mouth was dry. His heart pounded. He couldn't catch his breath. He couldn't avoid it. He couldn't squirm around it. He'd panicked, he'd over-reacted, he'd…he'd…

He could've killed someone.

If it had been a gun, Joe knew what would've happened. He'd be locked away, at best. Prison, hard time, life over. But here?

Joshua led them through the halls, back to a large, comfortable room filled with windows and light, worn couches covered with crocheted afghans and surrounding a round coffee table scarred with watermarks.

An argument had been going on, loud voices that stilled when Joshua pushed the door open. The room was crowded with people standing along the walls. Joe glanced around, saw Mar…and Ruth…Matt…Drake…Trevor…and Downs, on the nearest chair with his feet propped on the coffee table. Oh God.

"This looks serious." An elderly, gray-bearded Black man in a comfortable work shirt and worn jeans leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked over Joe and Frank.

"He wanted to tell you himself." Joshua glanced around the crowded room. "Open session?"

The elderly man nodded. "Best to stop everyone from panicking over rumors."

"Open session?" Joe said. He would not freak. He would not.

"Anyone who wants to listen, can," Joshua said. "Folks sitting are Council. They can ask questions at any point. Everyone else has to wait until Eli opens the floor."

"I…" Joe looked around at all the watching faces. About a dozen people were seated, Ruth and Mar among them, as was Downs. Matt and Trevor stood along the wall, squeezed in with others that Joe didn't know. Not all the faces were friendly. "I mean…" He stopped, breathed out, trying to get control.

Frank gripped his shoulder, brother-to-brother. Firm, calming.

"Frank, Joe," Mar nodded at the elderly man, "this is Elijah Jackson, the head of our Center. Eli, that's Joe and his brother Frank."

Eli smiled. "So you're the ones who've been the cause of all the uproar. I've wanted to meet with you, though not under these circumstances."

The man sounded friendly. Joe glanced around the room again. Jamie wasn't there. At least that part of the tale wouldn't come out, for the moment.

Joshua had dragged over two chairs. "You don't have to stand. We're not formal."

Joe shook his head. If he was going to be raked over the coals, best to meet it standing up. Behind him, the door opened again. Kris and Angel slipped in to stand along the wall, Kris looking irritated, Angel grim.

"Take it easy, Joe," Eli said. "We just want to know what happened. You getting attacked wasn't your fault. No one's angry with you."

Downs snorted; a few others snickered.

Eli gave Downs a brief, hard stare, then glanced around the room.

The noise stopped.

Joe closed his eyes. "Actually, sir…it was. My fault, I mean." Whispers scurried through the room; Frank tightened his grip on Joe's shoulder. Joe opened his eyes, met Mar's calm gaze. Easiest to talk directly to her. Back in Bayport, she'd never lost that calm, patient understanding with any of them, no matter what the trouble had been. No matter what.

Hands clenched around the crutch, Joe got the story out, from the point he'd left Wings to the attack. No one interrupted. No one spoke. Mar's expression never changed: still calm, still patient, understanding.

Joe left nothing out. By the time he finished, he was ready to collapse; whispers scurried around the room again. He bowed his head, unable to look at any of those hostile, pitying, curious, condemning gazes.

"Isn't this just special," Downs drawled. "What a way to build up the Blades."

"That's out of line," Eli said.

"Eli, this is exactly what I warned about!"

"Are you casting the first stone?" Eli said.

"What this idiot did is attempted homicide," Downs snapped, and others along the walls called out in agreement. "For all we know, that man may have been another Gifted trying to reach out to us —"

"Not hardly," Kris said, somewhere behind Joe.

"The floor is not open," Eli said, and the room silenced.

"Excuse me," Joe said. "'Cast the first stone'?"

Eli's gaze traveled the room. "Scripture. 'The scribes and Pharisees brought to Jesus a woman, and they said to him, Master, this woman was taken in adultery. Moses commanded us that such should be stoned: but what say you? Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground. But when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said to them, He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.' John 8."

Silence.

"Now, Joe," Eli said, "all the stories that little Hawk has told us — she's never said anything that made me think you or your brother were homicidal sociopaths. Are you?"

That had to be the first time in his life Joe had ever heard any judge, jury, or prosecuting attorney ask that question. Joe glanced at Frank, whose expression hadn't changed from Calm-and-In-Charge-Older-Brother. "Um…no, sir."

Eli smiled. "Just 'Eli'. So…what you did. It's not usual behavior for you."

Joe swallowed. The nightmares. How he'd reacted when he'd woken up, and what had happened to the closet and wall. But he hadn't attacked anyone. No one had been hurt. Except…no. They didn't need to know what had happened with him and Frank. "No, sir — Eli."

Mar's gaze settled on Joe; Joe shifted. Next to him, Frank stirred, but said nothing.

"Some of the Wings' kids are like that, when they first come in," Ruth commented. "We've got one now who'll start up with our older volunteers for no reason. We've been letting him keep to himself until we can get one of the counselors in."

"That's different," Downs said.

"It's exactly the same, darlin'," Joshua said; Ruth nodded. "Now I could bore y'all with tales about me coming back from 'Nam, but I won't. We all have our horror stories. Difference is that Joe's problems were _caused_ by us, when he and Frank threw in with us at NOLA."

"Joe, dear," Mar said, "please sit. You look about to collapse."

Joe shook his head.

"Oh, I'm not questioning us taking care of the problem, Joshua," Downs said. "I _am_ questioning you letting him into the Blades."

"That is not a topic for open session," Eli said.

"Yeah, it is," Downs said. "Everyone's supposed to trust that we can handle problems. This boy can't even handle himself."

Joe bowed his head. They'd seen the truth. They'd seen what a wreck he was.

"And Joe's not a Blade yet," Joshua said. "He wouldn't be for a couple months, anyway, until he gets trained, so it's a non-issue. Our issue is fixing the problem."

"That part's easy." Downs's gaze fixed on Joe. "Lock him down and send them both home. Problem solved."

"Lock him down?" Frank said, as more whispers and muttering broke out.

"Get rid of the problem," Downs said. "Shut his Gift down completely."

The SOB wanted to go that route, let him. Joe glared up. "Fine, do it."

That silenced the room. Downs looked taken aback.

"Go on," Joe said, his hand clenched on his crutch. "It's been nothing but trouble. I came out here because Joshua said me and Frank could do some good. But if that's not the case, fine. Get rid of it, get rid of us, and get it over with already."

"We don't work like that," Eli said, with a brief stare at Downs. "Stripping a Gift— that's only done in cases of true abuse." His gaze rested on Joe. "You don't want it done to you, believe me."

"Joe thought his life was threatened," Mar said, her usual serene calm. "He would never have acted that way if it hadn't been for New Orleans. I speak as someone who's known these young men for years." Mar smiled. "Forgive me, Joe — but Councillors, Joe never advanced in karate because he didn't want to hit anyone. For one with a warrior soul, he has a gentle heart."

Joe glanced at Drake, the Blade's trainer. The man's expression was neutral, nothing Joe could latch onto, good or bad. Great, just great.

"I'll vouch for that," Ruth said. "I watched him and Frank today at Wings. The kids took to them like old friends. And little Rita spoke to Joe, and some of us know how rare _that_ is."

Joe looked up, startled.

Ruth smiled. "It is, Joe. She'll talk some to Hawk. And Jamie, once in a while. _Ritacita_ will barely talk to Harold there, and the kids treat him like their favorite uncle."

"He still lied," Downs said, ignoring that. "And you know it, Mar. Both he and his brother are aware that he lied. It's all through them."

Mar nodded. "Right when Eli asked if it was usual behavior for you, Joe. Whatever you're hiding, I suggest you tell us." Still calm, as if she was telling them "_please don't walk through the tomato plants."_

Then it hit, the full impact of what he was facing. Joe looked around the room. In the New Orleans hospital, Kris had explained a lot about the Gifts and the Association. He thought he'd understood. He hadn't, really. Now, facing the reality, hearing Mar just say that…

"You're reading our minds," Frank said harshly.

"No, dear," Mar said. "If that was the case, we wouldn't bother asking."

"It's against our rules," Eli said. "Not to mention highly unethical. No, we do not read your minds."

"But we can tell when you're hiding something," Mar went on, "and when you're lying."

Well, that explained a lot about Mar; she'd always been impossible to dodge the truth with. Joe opened his mouth, but Frank's grip tightened again, silencing him. "In that case," Frank said, "then yes. It's happened before, since we got home. Joe has nightmares. He's woken up and — Mar, I don't know how to describe it. But no one got hurt. Just the wall."

"I'm back _there,"_ Joe said, fighting to still his trembling. "With Thatcher. And I…I…" Joe could still see it, the broken closet door, the shattered drywall, Dad yelling at Frank for the damage because the brothers didn't dare tell the truth. He swallowed, got control of himself. "I never did that _before."_

"Because now you know you _can_," Mar said. "Your brain's been presented with another option, a dangerous, effective option, and worse, now you _believe _it."

"What they're describing," Joshua said, "is post-traumatic stress. Flashbacks."

"We know, Joshua," Eli said gently. "But that doesn't lessen the severity of what happened. It gives us a reason, but the fact remains: someone could've been killed today. At the very least, a potential Gifted has been scared off —"

"No, Eli," Kris said.

"Kris, I won't tell you again."

"Actually, O.G.," Angel said, "Joshua sent me and _plumacita _here out to scan the area. This weighs in. We came in to report."

"Oh, wonderful," Downs said. "The little girl's going to defend her big brothers. Go on, girl, let's hear how it wasn't really his fault."

"Harold," Eli said, as Kris and Angel moved up to the center of the room, "I will not warn _you_ again. Go on, Angel."

"Let me check something first." Angel laid a hand on Joe's shoulder. "'Scuse me, _ese. _I haven't had a chance to spy your sig." He fell silent; Joe felt _something _coil through him, swift and sure, but then it was gone, and Angel shook his hand out. "Okay. That mess out front. Joe did for the plants, the baby trees, that's it. His stuff might've jacked someone up a bit, but not killed 'em. Nowhere near. But the real problem…" He looked at Kris.

Kris hesitated. "Joe's was the only sig out there."

The words dropped into the room, stilled it…then noise burst out: shock, disbelief, anger.

"_What?"_ Joe couldn't have heard that. "Tag, you can't be serious!"

"Just great," Downs said, at the same time. "So we've got us a certifiable section eight on our hands."

"There will be silence," Eli said.

The room stilled again.

"Go on, Hawk," Eli said.

Kris glanced at Joe; she looked miserable. "Just what I said, Eli. Nothing else. Not like someone wiped the area. That still leaves traces. It's like there wasn't any other magic at all."

Dizzy, Joe was trembling, his heart pounding. He couldn't be hearing this. He didn't imagine it. He _couldn't _have!

"Hawk, darlin'," Joshua said, rubbing his forehead, "_please_ tell me you're joking."

Kris only looked at him.

"Something had to have been there," Frank said; his grip on Joe's shoulder had tightened again. "Something shattered that turquoise. Tag — Kris, I mean — she told me that the protections on it got overloaded. And there was an impact point right where those pieces were."

"Impact point?" Eli said.

"Bare dirt," Frank said. "The gravel was sprayed back, towards the Center, like it'd been hit, and the dirt under it was divot-marked."

Glances went around the seated Council, but both Angel and Kris were nodding.

"Like everything else, Eli," Kris said. "Me and Josh sent wrist-bands to Joe and Frank. They had our protections on them. Joe's is out there in pieces, but his sig isn't on it. Something broke it, but it wasn't him."

"Everything Joe hit was bent away from the Center," Angel said. "Frank's right."

"So you're asking us to believe that someone used magic that can't be detected, doesn't leave traces, or just flat-out isn't there," Downs said. "Hawk, even for you, that's going a ways."

"Can't argue with physical facts, darlin'," Joshua said. "Unless you're claiming both she and Angel are lying."

"No one messed with anythin', either," Angel said. "I was watching. I saw Frank try to touch the gravel, but Hawk stopped him. That's it."

"The turquoise," Frank said. "I wanted to see what broke it."

"Of course," Downs said, "you're just assuming that the boy didn't make that divot himself when he was having this so-called post-traumatic stress episode. That stone could've broken from being dropped, if it came loose."

"But Joe's wrist is burned," Frank said. "And the bits of leather out there were scorched black."

Joshua glanced at Frank with the start of a bare grin, quickly smoothed over. "He's right, Harold, darlin'. You can see that yourself. Second degree blisters, all in a ring around his wrist. Now if you claim he did _that_ to himself, I'll call bullshit. Like you've been oh-so-casually implying, Joe doesn't have that kind of control yet."

Downs scowled.

"Whatever it was," Kris held her hands clenched behind her back, "it was pretty tightly focused. Nothing broke going the other way but the turquoise. No emotional surge with it, either. There was just nothing."

"That definitely doesn't sound like a panicked Gifted," Joshua said. "That all has the sound of something damn-well-trained."

"Wonderful," Frank murmured to Joe. "Just what we need."

If he survived this, if he got out of this without losing his brain, skin, or sanity, Joe was going to corner their tagalong for a long talk. All of this had the sound of things he needed to know how to do — and that he'd better pick it up fast. "He wasn't acting panicked. He didn't act scared of me at all. He acted like I was nothing."

Magic that wasn't there. The man had pointed teeth, like a vampire. If vampires existed…if…well, vampires couldn't be seen in mirrors. Maybe their magic couldn't be seen, either.

"Even if that cock-and-bull's true," Downs said, "it doesn't change the fact that you didn't know who was behind you. It could've been anybody you attacked."

Eli glanced at Downs, but said nothing.

"I know." Somehow Joe kept his voice steady. "I thought it was the tail, and I thought he had a gun. I panicked." It hurt to admit that. Everything Dad had ever taught him and Frank: the need to stay in control, to not let one's emotions get the better of you…and Joe had blown it.

"Believe it or not, Harold," Joshua said, "I am aware of that. Joe's grounded. He's not allowed to leave Center unless someone's with him. Joe'll also be seeing Becca, and I'll be doing his training until I'm sure there won't be a repeat." Joshua smiled grimly. "Just like we did for Karma."

"That makes me feel so much better," Joe muttered, still thinking over the vampire connection. Kris had told him stories about training Vão and Rafe, when Joe had been in the hospital.

"I appreciate you taking charge of him, Joshua," Eli said. "And Joe, your honesty is even more appreciated — it takes courage to admit one's wrongdoing and accept the consequences, so I truly hate what I'm about to say. But Harold brought up a valid point. It's out in the open now, so it's best to handle it openly."

Joe had been relaxing, just a little. Now he froze, hands clenched again. Frank's grip tightened on his shoulder.

"Eli," Joshua said, "you better not be giving me orders."

"I am," Eli said. "By this young man's own words, he attacked without knowing what was behind him. He was not flashing back. He was in control of his actions. _Driven by trauma or not," _Eli raised his voice, overrode Joshua's protest, "it shows a serious lack of judgement, for one of his age and background.

"He cannot be allowed in the Blades."


	19. Magic Man

_**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! To address a quick question on a couple chapters back, Frank & Joe weren't referring to the "Ghostbusters" film. Oh, no. There was a gods-awful Saturday morning live-action kids' show called "The Ghost Busters" in the mid-'70s, with two detectives & a gorilla hunting ghosts. Larry Storch starred in that - the guy who played the comedian villain in "Silent Scream" HB episode. Check YouTube for it. Don't say I didn't warn you. ;)  
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Game over.

The whole roller-coaster day had finally ground him into submission. Joe limped after his brother and the others; Frank's grip hadn't left Joe's shoulder, tight, reassuring. Right after Eli had made that pronouncement, the room had burst into argument and shouting, until Eli had ordered everyone out.

Decision done, conversation over. No passing Go, no collecting $200, no refunds, no returns.

"That had to be the most _bullshit —"_

"Joshua," Mar said.

Joe wasn't listening. He was done. Pack up, retreat home. At least Dad had someplace for Joe to go. At least in Bayport, Joe wouldn't be surrounded by folks calling him _failure_. Not to his face, anyway.

"Are you going to pay for our plane tickets back?" Frank said. "Or just kick us to the curb?"

"My son," Mar said, "I understand you're upset, but please do not take it out on me."

Frank looked away. "Sorry."

Mar patted his shoulder. "It's okay. The only thing this changes is Joe being a Blade. It doesn't change anything else."

"It does," Joe said bitterly, "the way everyone's talking."

"Eli did not throw you out," Mar said. "We don't work like that. And I would never do that to you, ever."

"It sure as hell doesn't change our teaching you, _chè,"_ Joshua snarled. "No matter what Council says, this isn't over by a long shot."

"_Joshua," _Mar said.

"Josh, honey, what are you going on about now?" called a voice from ahead.

Joe crossed through the archway into the living room of Mar's suite. One of the other guys from the commons earlier, Samuel, was in the kitchen, relaxing at the table and chatting with a chunky Asian man in a neon-yellow sweatshirt emblazoned with a cartoon space-ship and Japanese letteringacross the front, who wielded knives and pots with surprising dexterity. He whacked down at something in front of him with a solid _thunk_, then tossed a fish-head into the sink.

"We heard you all the way up here, butterfly," Samuel said. "Council that rough?"

Joshua only waited in the middle of the room with his arms crossed, as Kris leaned her hand against the wall for a brief moment.

"Eli ain't never walked in enemy jungle," Joshua growled at Mar, the moment Kris's hand left the wall. "He ain't never walked where the slightest noise means charlie's about to jump your —"

"_Joshua," _Mar said again, "you don't know where Elijah's walked."

"Darlin', don't shut me up. Our C.O.'s acting like a shake-and-bake desk jockey. The jungle never leaves you. You learn to control it, that's all. Joe ain't learned that control, and Eli's got no damn business —" Joshua caught himself, closed his eyes, took a deep, deliberate breath in and out, his hands moving in that slow, palm-down, _calm-down_ motion.

"That bad," Samuel said.

Joshua nodded. "Later. Put the knife _down_ before you shake hands, Ryuu _mô shou_…" The knife-wielding man in the kitchen had gone from staring at Joshua to blinking wide-eyed at Frank and Joe, "…these are Kris's big brothers, Frank and Joe Hardy."

"Ryuu Tanaka." After an uncertain glance at Joshua, the man grinned over the half-wall. "A.k.a. Godzilla among these heathens."

"_Gojira,"_ Joe said. He'd forgotten about dinner. Were they really expecting him to act like nothing had happened?

If anything, that grin became wider. "Oh my god. Another _aficionado? _No one here has any appreciation for those films. Just rubber-suit monsters, that's all they see. Finally, someone with culture." Godzilla eyed Joe up and down. "And _gorgeous._ Too bad you're straight, or I'd be offering marriage right about now."

"You're missing bumps, Godz." Kris went into the kitchen, tried to snag a piece of whatever Godzilla was chopping. "Joe only likes big — _hey!"_ She jerked back.

"Out, heathen! That's what you get for not telling me your big brothers are so _hot!"_

"They _are?"_

Now wishing he'd kept his mouth shut, Joe looked away, his hands clenched on the crutch, his face hot. The way Godzilla looked at him reminded Joe of Thatcher: speculative, appreciative, greedy…

…_strip him first, dear, please…_

"And he's shy," Godzilla said. "I _like_ it."

"Ryuu, dear," Mar said, with a glance at Joe, "tone it down, please. We don't need them fleeing in terror."

"You're no fun, Mama Hawk."

Joe didn't look up. Even Mar thought he was unstable.

…_a serious lack of judgement and lack of concern for others…_

"Thank God we're straight." Frank settled into the sofa. "I prefer my dates to not have knives in their hands."

"And thank God they're both too young to appreciate the value of a good cook," Joshua said. "Sorry, Ryuu, you're stuck with me."

"Ah, well." Godzilla gave Frank the same up-and-down gaze. "You're sure? Not even curious? I can make them butter knives."

"Positive," Frank said.

Frank sounded so calm. How could he joke around like that? Joe had just been tossed in the trash. Dumped, broken, useless.

Godzilla let out an exaggerated sigh. "You Jedi are all alike. Lure me in with your Force, then play hard to get. I swear, I earn my way out of purgatory every time I come up here."

Joshua rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "Did I mention he's a sci-fi geek, too? Lord, if I never see another episode of _Battlestar Galactica_…"

"Says the man who drools over Apollo," Kris said.

"Watch it, darlin', or I'll show your big brothers those teeny-bop mags you're hiding in your desk. Who's that fluffy-haired singer again…?"

"Those are all on Karma! Vão's curious about something."

"Suuuure, Tag." Frank shook his head. "You and rock musicians. Me and Joe should've kept a closer eye on you." He grinned at Joshua. "Does she still have all those pinups of Keith Partridge?"

"_Big brother…"_

"Frank's just a normal, too, Godz," Samuel said over top of them, grinning. "You're safe."

Godzilla hmph'd. "You realize that makes you Jedi _ab-_normal." Then he grinned over at Frank. "Hopefully you've figured that out already."

"I never would've guessed," Frank said.

Joe couldn't look at any of them. …_any normal male…_

No, he wasn't normal. Not anymore. Despair, depression, it all rolled over him again in a choking gray fog. He couldn't deal with this, none of it. Shaking his head, Joe limped back through the door, back to the sanctuary of his room. He'd allowed himself to hope, he'd dared to think there was a place for him, and now…

"Okay if I come in?" Frank stood in the doorway.

Joe shrugged. Sanctuary. Right. He should've known better.

"That's not an answer."

Curled on the bed, Joe didn't respond. It was all the answer he was going to give.

Suddenly Frank grabbed him and _shoved._

Joe yelped, scrabbled at the mattress, and fell flat on the floor, staring up at Frank in total shock.

"Stop it," Frank snapped. "You've moped enough. These idiots want to waste your brains, that's their problem. _It's not going to be ours."_

Joe struggled up. "_You_ were wanting to leave this morning."

Frank squatted to glare into Joe's face. "I've had enough of everyone telling us what we can't do. It's time we show them that we _will, _whether they like it or not." Then he lowered his voice. "Something's going on with Wings. Something's really wrong."

Joe went cold. He hadn't told anyone what little Rita had said or about the weird kid drawing him as a vampire. Frank had run into something _else?_

"Big brothers?" Kris, from the hall door.

Abruptly Joe'd had enough. "Will you two let me sulk in peace?"

"No," Frank said. "Back here, Tag."

"Y'know," Kris stopped in the doorway, "I know you guys are really upset when Frank's the loud one."

Joe and Frank looked at each other. With a sigh, Frank rubbed at his forehead. "Sorry. I'll keep it down."

"It's okay," Kris said. "Josh started up again. Between him and Godzilla, you could drop a nuke and no one would hear it. I know Josh — he won't let it rest."

"Tag," Joe said, not looking at her, "just drop it. It's over. I was an idiot for even hoping."

"You're asking to get dumped again," Frank said.

"Big brother…" Kris came in to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of Joe. "Okay, what happened is serious. But I know you two. Someone shoves you, you fight back, and you keep fighting until you win."

Joe shifted under Frank's stare.

"You know, I wonder if Downs set all that up." Frank settled back against the wall. His tone, his posture — they could've been back in Bayport, sitting under the old sugar maple and chattering about Dad's latest case. "Just to get us."

"I don't see how he could've," Kris said. "No one knew what'd happened until Joe told his story. Even me and Angel couldn't tell for sure."

"What Downs said in there," Frank said, "that he and Mar knew we were hiding something. He's a telepath?"

Kris hesitated, then nodded.

"Thought so." Frank settled back. "So if Downs read Joe's mind, if he knew the story beforehand. If he knew, and used it…"

"You're accusing him of breaking some major Association rules." Kris shook her head. "I can't see him doing that."

"Is there a way to tell?" Joe said, interested despite himself; Frank had a knack for pulling him into a mystery, no matter what Joe's reservations were. "Magic leaves a signature, you said. So Downs reading my mind would leave a signature in my brain."

Kris hesitated. "It's not the same."

"Why wouldn't it be?" Frank said.

"Telepathy's not magic. Magic is…well…mage-Gift. Like what Josh has. Telepathy isn't the same."

"That's not an explanation, Tag. That's an excuse."

Kris just looked at them.

"That's what I hate about the spooky stuff," Frank said. "It doesn't have rules. It never makes sense, and it violates all logic."

"It does follow rules, big brother. That's why I gave you _Real Magic."_

"And all those rules violate known science. I mean, some of them make sense, but most of them are just crazy."

"Science doesn't claim to know everything," Joe said, thinking it over. "Maybe the crazy rules have a logic, but no one's ever tested to find out what it is." Joe looked at Kris. "Has anyone ever _checked_ to see if telepathy leaves a signature?"

Kris blinked. "Um…"

"Thought so," Joe said.

"I wouldn't know what to look for," Kris said. "I mean, I know how to check for magic-signature. But telepathy? That might mean a 'path has to really read you to see it."

Frank leaned forward. "So if Downs did do something, there's no way to prove it."

"Yet," Joe said.

"That bet you and Josh have," Frank said to Kris, "I hope to God you bet on me, because I'm going to make him pay."

Kris sighed. "Look, I don't like Downs, either. He's real old-fashioned, a stickler for discipline. He's former military, in fact."

"So's Josh," Frank said.

"Well, yeah," Kris conceded. "And Downs is honorable, in his way. He won't backstab you. Anything he does, he does to your face. And he's really good with the Wings kids. You heard Ruth."

…_I saw little Rita talking to Joe, and some of us here know how rare that is…_

"Kris," Joe said slowly, "does this mean I'm banned from Wings?"

Frank looked at him, a swift, sharp stare. Joe ignored it.

"Um…as long as you have someone with you, like Josh said." Kris's mouth quirked. "I'm pretty sure Jamie counts as someone."

So they hadn't heard that particular part of the story. Joe really didn't need to be branded as _crazy_ on top of the rest. He wasn't about to leave little Rita at the mercy of whoever "they" were, whoever or whatever was hurting her. Assuming the vampire-thing was real to begin with, and not just a couple kids with over-active imaginations.

Wait…if Downs had mind-read him, then Downs would've known about Jamie. He would've gotten Jamie to tell her story to Council. It would've made an even bigger case for Joe being unstable: blowing up at a woman just over whether or not he'd take his shirt off.

Maybe Kris had a point.

Frank was grinning. "Now I'm jealous, brother. You'll get first crack at all the girls here, because they'll be working me to death."

Trust Frank to think of that. "Right."

"Hooked on Wings already?" Kris said, to Joe.

"You could say that," Joe said. Best not to mention what Rita had said. Trying to explain that a little girl might be getting attacked by a vampire…

Yeah. Joe could see where that would go. Best to not bring it up until he was sure.

Though if they could read his mind — no. Everyone had been pretty emphatic about Association rules. So…keep his mouth shut, and they wouldn't have a reason to ban the paranoid lunatic from Wings, either.

"Partner," Joshua's voice came from the hallway door, "stop hogging your big brothers and get back out here. Godz's threatening to throw on _Mothra_ if you don't."

"Yeah, sure, Josh." Kris got to her feet. "C'mon. Or else he'll follow it up with _Gamera_, and Mar'll scalp us for sure."

Joe accepted Frank's help up, then followed after Kris. But the moment Kris cleared the hall door and was out of earshot, Frank held Joe back, his hand on Joe's shoulder, and spoke in a low, low undertone.

"We need to talk."


	20. Paranoia

Dinner was nothing like Joe expected.

It turned into a loud little party over the course of the evening, not just Kris, Joshua and Mar, but plenty others: Ruth, Samuel, Matt, other folks who wandered in and out. It was as if everyone was determined to put Joe and Frank at ease, despite what had happened. The whole thing had a distinct vibe of _meet the new guys_…paired with _see how much we can get them to swallow before they call us on it._

Somehow Joe managed to smile and act as if nothing had happened.

Everyone was so normal, solid, and grounded that Joe felt vaguely offended. Couldn't they act just a little spooky? No one read his mind; no one made any comments about auras or UFOs or the Bermuda Triangle…well, Kris was chattering about something haunting the Alcatraz ruins, but Tagalong and her ghost stories were _normal._

Though _normal, solid, grounded_ didn't apply towards the food. Joe loved seafood: lobster, shrimp, crab, fresh-caught fish over an open beach-fire. Living in a coastal town did that. But this stuff…

Rice. _Raw_ fish. Avocado. Crunchy stuff — he identified walnuts, cucumber, and apple. Ginger, seaweed marinated to the point of transparency, something green and mushy that everyone assured him was Japanese horseradish and which scorched his sinuses when he tried it. Joe got instantly addicted to the sweet eel rolls, but couldn't bring himself to touch the raw stuff. Frank was bolder and dared the raw salmon and tuna slices that Godzilla called _sashimi_, though no amount of cajoling convinced either brother to attempt the sea urchin — spoiled brown Jell-O just didn't rank as food on Joe's list.

"Oh, come on," Kris said to Joe, breaking into his thoughts. "_Nigiri's_ no worse than lobster."

"That," Joe said, with dignity, "is cooked."

"Yeah, but it's not looking at you."

"Think of it as a new cultural experience, Joe." Frank dipped yet another piece of _sashimi _into soy sauce. "You should try new things. You might like it."

When they were kids, Frank had also assured Joe that needles didn't hurt, that the wobbly log crossing the stream on the Morton's farm was stable, and that brussels sprouts tasted like lettuce. Frank wouldn't lie, but his perception sometimes didn't match Joe's reality…especially when Frank was trying to convince Joe to do something.

"Wait, back up, darlin'," Joshua said. "_Looking_ at you?"

Kris rolled her eyes.

Frank was grinning; Joe laughed, feeling relaxed and at ease for the first time since leaving Wings_._ Teasing their tagalong was normal, every day, real. "Oh, yeah," Joe said. "First time we did a lobster boil on the beach. We had to turn the lobster around so it wasn't looking at her before she'd eat it."

"And cover the head with a napkin," Frank said.

The group burst into laughter, as Kris blushed.

"You should've seen her when we introduced her to this stuff," Samuel said, as he handed Joshua a bottle of Anchor Steam. "Josh had to bribe her with a week's worth of Ghiardelli to get her to try a Cali roll."

"It used fake crab," Kris said.

"Says the girl who ate squirrel and pigeon." Joe grinned at her dirty look. "Don't deny it, Tag, I've got pictures."

"You're a Blade, too?" Frank said to Samuel.

Beer in hand, Samuel settled into a sprawl on the couch. "Me? Hell no. I'm too much a coward."

Joshua snorted. "Riiiight. Now tell them what you really do."

"Not much. SFPD. Homicide. See what kind of useless contacts you get with us?" Samuel grinned at Joe. "Y'know, we've got internships on our forensics squad through SFSU. Mar said you were into such things."

Joe raised his head: another offer he hadn't expected. Harry Hammond had offered something similar back in Bayport, and the attached strings had been too obvious. What was the price going to be here?

…_we don't know much about them, and here you've been recruited…_

"What I really said was 'don't leave any fingerprint-able surfaces in a fifty-foot-radius of him'." Mar smiled fondly at the brothers. "I raised the only girl in all of Bayport who made sure to wipe her glass clean before she left the room."

"We also have the only van with a fingerprint kit in the front seat twenty-four-seven," Frank said. "Not to mention that mini-kit he kept in his socks."

"Which someone was glad to make use of, I might add," Joe said, giving Frank a dirty look.

"Seriously?" Samuel said. "Joe, why are you screwing around with the Blades? I'm kidnapping you on the A.M. My crew _hates_ 'printing."

"They're here for vacation, Samuel," Mar said. "Not work."

"Uh-huh. I can see it their eyes, Mama Hawk. For them, that _is _a vacation. How 'bout it, you two? I can arrange a tour of the department and the downtown lab. Folks get to know you, you'll have a better shot at those internships."

Frank's face had lit up; Joe's heart lifted. A real police detective didn't think the crutch was an issue, despite what Dad had said. "Sure," Joe managed. "Please."

His suspicions eased. So Samuel wasn't promising anything, just making them aware the internships existed. Nor was he offering anything unusual — detective work ran on connections and networking; Joe knew that from Dad.

"Anyone there know Dad?" Frank said.

"Probably. We've got a few East Coast transplants." Samuel grinned. "I'm sure they won't hold it against you."

"Sam, darlin', stop recruiting my newbies out from under me." But Joshua was grinning, too. "Yeah, we work with the area PD's from time to time. We pass them info we get. They let things slip to us."

"Not all of us," Samuel said. "Just a few who are…ah…enlightened. We've called Center folk in occasionally, too."

With that, Joshua and the others were encouraging Frank and Joe to tell their own tales ("I want to know how much trouble Kris _really_ got you into."). Calm, relaxed, casual, no mention made of what had happened. No spooky stuff, no weird stuff. Joe let himself relax more, eyeing the sushi. Maybe he should just try the raw stuff. It looked a lot more appetizing than the _steak tartare_ that he'd tried at that fancy restaurant he'd taken Iola to for senior prom. How he'd ever let Iola talk him into that…

Well, that was over, too.

"You guys are plotting to overthrow my evil empire behind my back, aren't you?" Jamie said, from the archway.

"Just your run-of-the-mill peasant rebellion, darlin'," Joshua said. "Nothing to worry about."

"Quick, hide the grapes," someone muttered behind Joe.

"Come in, dear," Mar said to her, at the same time. "There's plenty of food."

"And Vão's not here, so there's still lots of sushi," Kris added.

"Of course he's not," Jamie said grandly. "His Royal Awfulness heard of my presence and wisely decided to lay low." Then she saw Joe.

The fun and acceptance of the last hour evaporated. Oh, Joe could tell how this was going to go. He was a newcomer and she was friends with everyone here, that was obvious. She had to have heard about Joe getting tossed from the Blades by now, and it didn't take a detective to figure out what would happen when she told her part of the whole fiasco.

…_any normal male…_

Jamie had frozen, and Joe realized he was glaring. Without a word, he pushed himself up, headed for the patio doors.

"Joe?" Frank said.

Shaking his head, Joe made it out onto the patio and slid the doors shut behind him. Silence, save for the sounds of boats in the Bay, the screeching of seagulls, the muffled sounds of the party through the doors. He had to calm down. He had to keep control. His throat tight, his hands clenched, Joe watched the trees, the grass, the patterns the wind made of the branches.

His gaze suddenly focused on one spot. The movement was wrong…

Someone tapped on the glass doors. Before Joe could react, Jamie slid them open and stepped out.

"Okay if I join you?"

Joe shrugged.

"Y'know," Jamie said, "in a place full of 'paths, it's really obvious when there's a problem. You made it even more obvious."

"If you're going to jump my case, too," Joe rasped, "then leave."

She just looked at him.

He knew what she had to be seeing: the rope scars, his shattered hand, the bad limp. Head bowed, Joe leaned on his arms against the rail. "I don't need pity, either."

"You're not getting it, believe me. Not someone who tries to hit me, no matter how good-looking he is."

That brought Joe up short.

…_are you seriously that out of control?…_

"I only came out here to try to work out whatever set you off this afternoon. But…fine. I'll leave you alone." Jamie started to pull the doors back.

But he hadn't meant…she was going to…he'd only wanted… "Jamie…"

Jamie waited. Out here, with the wind in her hair and the light of the setting sun, she was even _mor_e gorgeous.

Maybe she acted like that with everyone. It hadn't deserved his striking out at her. Joe had overreacted, because of…of…

…_a serious lack of judgement…_

Joe looked away. "I'm sorry."

Silence.

"It's been a rotten day. Everything kind of piled up and I overreacted. I lost my temper." Joe wasn't about to go into details. Telling a gorgeous woman that he was going crazy was not a good way to go.

"Really."

Joe winced. "I'm not such a bad guy when you get to know me. Tag can vouch for that."

Jamie looked confused. "Tag?"

"Kris." Joe managed a smile. "Short for 'Tagalong.'"

Jamie let out a short bubble of evil laughter. "I am sooo not going to let her live that one down." She cocked her head. "You should smile more often. You don't look like you're going to bite my head off now."

That sounded promising. "I'd like to start over."

"And that actually sounded properly Evil-Minion-ish." Jamie settled into a lean. "So what are you hiding under your shirt that's so top-secret?"

That wasn't what Joe had meant, but…okay, he could play along. Take all the midnight B-movies he'd ever seen and run with it; keep her distracted, make it a joke, and hopefully put off the point where she'd find out the ugly truth. "The map to your fortress of evil."

"Oh, _really?"_

Joe let out an exaggerated sigh. "It's in code. Real secret spy stuff. Even I can't read it. I was waiting out here for my rebel contact. Until you showed up, anyway."

"Until _I _showed up?"

"I'm hardly going to pass along top secret information right under your beautiful Evil Overlord nose." Joe settled back against the railing. He was enjoying this. "It's a style thing. I'd have to turn in my Rebel Alliance membership card if I did that."

"Joe?"

Both Joe and Jamie startled. Joe hadn't even heard the glass doors slide back.

Frank came out onto the deck, stopped. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Aha!" Jamie flashed a dazzling smile at Joe. "Betraying your own brother. I'm impressed. Maybe you're not my arch-enemy after all, Fluffy Cute Farm-Boy."

Then she slipped past Frank and went back inside, before Joe could gather his wits enough to quip back.

"Tag's right," Frank said, grinning. "You're a really loud thinker."

Joe watched through the glass doors as Jamie re-joined the others. That couldn't have been an invitation. She couldn't possibly be interested. She had to have seen his hand, his neck, the limp. It was just a game she played with everyone.

"Joe?"

Irritated, Joe looked up. "You've got a wonderful sense of timing, you know that?"

Frank glanced through the door, then back at Joe. "You're welcome."

With a dirty look, Joe pushed away from the railing…then paused, eyeing the grounds and the trees again, watching the movement of the grass and brush in the wind. Just shadows, random shapes of leaves, green, and weed. Maybe.

"Need help getting promoted from Evil Minion?" Frank said, then when Joe didn't take the bait, "Joe?"

They'd never lied to each other; they never held anything back. Joe nodded over the grounds. "Out there."

Frank's gaze traveled the trees. "I don't see anything."

Great. Now Joe was being paranoid. He turned away from the rail.

Frank had him by the shoulder. "That doesn't mean there's nothing there. Let's go find out."

Joe stopped.

With a glance towards the glass doors, Frank started down the stairs. "We need to know. _You_ need to know."

"Frank…"

"We're not doing anything wrong," Frank said patiently. "We're just going to stretch our legs. And if we run into that guy, you apologize, and then we'll shake the truth out of him."

There was no arguing with Frank when he was like this. "I've been grounded, remember." Joe raised his hands in surrender when Frank just looked at him. "All right, just thought I'd mention it."

"Josh said not to leave the grounds," Frank said. "And we're not. C'mon."


	21. Devil Went Down To Georgia

_**A/N: thanks for the reviews, Caranath, Xenithia, DuffyBarkley, mdperryfan, ChrisDaughterOfApollo, & Wendylouwho10!**_

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With another glance to make sure Joe was following, Frank went down the stairs, then towards the trees. He hadn't been able to get that kid out of his mind — a kid claiming he'd be turned into a vampire, then Joe saying someone with pointed teeth had tailed him. Coincidence on that level? Not hardly.

Frank didn't want Joe involved in anything like New Orleans again, but if they didn't confront this head-on now, it would confront them on its terms, when they were least expecting it. Whatever it was had only attacked after Joe attacked first, and Joe tried to bluff by claiming he was an evil magician. That added up to _major misunderstanding_, in Frank's book.

Assuming there was anything out here at all, of course.

Sunlight was fading fast, turning the Bay into deep indigo streaked with light. Thick fog was rolling in from the sea; it moved like it was alive, a massive, rolling wall with tendrils that curled around trees and vanished into the gray dark.

"I feel like I'm in a Scooby Doo episode," Joe said. The fog and fading light made their voices hushed. "The part where the ghost scares the daylights out of them."

They went along the tree line bordering the far end of the grounds, the deck barely in sight through the fog. All sound was muffled: fog horns somewhere out on the Bay. Every nerve alive and tight, Frank watched the shadows, the trees, the tangles of arroyo willows and French broom, too conscious of the noise Joe was making. Mar had taught them how to move quietly in the woods, back when they were kids, and now…well…Joe was trying, but Frank winced every time Joe's crutch crunched into the dirt.

Suddenly Joe stopped, hand raised. In the hushed silence of the heavy fog, Frank heard it. Someone digging, off in the trees. Mushy sounds, a metal edge driving into clay and earth, the wet thump of dirt hitting the ground.

"The gardens are up on the roof," Joe murmured. "Tag said it's all brush out this end."

There was still just enough light to see. Frank searched along the tree line and pulled out a fallen branch, snapping pieces off until it was a size he could heft comfortably. No reason to play stupid, after all.

He noticed Joe watching him; Frank held up his left wrist — he'd taken Joshua's warning to heart and had put on Kris's turquoise-and-leather-braid gift after coming back from that sham of a Council meeting. After New Orleans, Frank wasn't about to take chances, whether he believed it or not.

Joe's gaze moved from Frank's wrist to the makeshift staff. Without a word, Joe hefted his crutch up to remove the rubber tip from the foot end. It wasn't pointed, but those square edges were sharp.

"That's made of oak," Frank said. "Isn't there some spooky-stuff thing Tag says about that?"

"Yeah, well, I don't think a vampire'll care what kind of wood's sticking out of his chest. C'mon."

The silence deepened as they crossed into the brush and picked their way through the trees, moving in the direction of the sound. They lost sight of the Center in the fog and fading light and stopped a few yards in for Joe to scrape an arrow into the ground, Frank backing it up with twigs.

The digging sounds continued. So whoever it was didn't care that someone was out here with them? Maybe it was legitimate, then.

They broke through the trees into a small dim clearing, thick with fog curling over the ground. A square, shallow hole in the ground and a small mound of earth were at the far end. Next to it, with his back to them, stood an old white-haired black man in a shabby suit, leaning on a shovel and smoking a cigar. The hole was only a couple inches deep, the freshly overturned earth dark against the green scrub, and the air smelled of rich, smoky tobacco.

"Eli?" Frank said, surprised. Eli hadn't been at the party — this was where he'd gone? But the man looked back, and Frank shut his mouth. Definitely not Eli.

The man wore a skull mask.

Lifting the mask, the old man took a long pull from a bottle wrapped in a paper sack. He was far older than anyone Frank had ever seen, face covered in age-marks, crows-feet eyes amused. "Gah. Haven't had decent rum here in _years_. You'd think with all the Spanish jacks, gamblers, and miners, someone here could brew a good bottle." He spoke in a thick creole accent. Smiling, he eyed Joe up and down. "Took my advice, did you, _chè?_"

"You know him?" Frank said to Joe.

"Who are you?" Joe rasped, harsh, loud. "What are you doing here? You're not from the Center."

Sighing, the old man shook his head. "_Chè, chè…_bit of politeness and the right question would've put you right as rain. You could've asked who I'm digging this hole for. Or, rather, who I'd like to be digging it for. I can't seem to get very far with it. But you're on your own now." He picked the shovel up, shouldered it, turned as if to go. "I will admit, the Happy Meal was a nice touch."

Joe went still.

"Sir, please," Frank said. The man didn't look like Joe's description of the attacker, and with everything Frank had heard about San Francisco, a skull mask wasn't that outlandish. "I'm sorry — you surprised us, that's all. Someone attacked him today, and it's got us on edge. My brother didn't mean to be rude." Frank hesitated; maybe the old man was homeless, too, like Anga. "Do you need help?"

"Well, well." The old man cocked his head. "I'm impressed. Maybe I should finish digging this." Frank hadn't seen him move, but now the old man's gnarled hand gripped Frank's shoulder, a strong, kindly grasp. "Well, _chè?" _the old man said to Joe. "Should I finish it? Would you like to know who this hole's supposed to be for, after all?"

"Get away from him," Joe snarled, raising his right hand — blinding, fiery light flared, turning the fog into glowing foxfire. "I said, _get away from him!"_

"_Joe!"_

The old man sighed. "Strike three, _chè._ You just don't listen to your friends. Oh, well." He patted Frank's shoulder. "And you, _chè?_ Stand on your own feet. Stop trying to stand on his. What else do they say out here…oh, yes. Be aware of your choice." Another shoulder grip. "Maybe I'll see you later."

The man walked off into the fog.

Unsure what had just happened, Frank stood there. In the golden light from Joe's hand, the clearing was a small graveyard, the headstones worn almost smooth, no more than stubs in the ground. The man must've been a caretaker.

"The people here are a tourist attraction all by themselves, I'll say that," Frank muttered under his breath. Kneeling by one of the headstones, he could barely make out a date: 12-12-1900. "That went beyond rude, Joe. He sounded cracked, but he wasn't threatening us."

Joe lowered his arm; the light faded. "We're leaving. Now." He thumped Frank with his crutch. "C'mon. Get up. Move."

"What for?" Looking closer, Frank saw his brother was pale and trembling. "Joe? What's wrong?"

But nothing Frank said swayed his brother, and finally, Frank humored him, until they got back through the trees. By that time, the sun had completely set, the only light from the outside lights of the Center across the grounds, dim wispy globes barely visible through the thick fog. There Frank faced his brother squarely. "No. I'm not moving another step, not until you tell me what's going on."

Joe closed his eyes. "That was Samedi."

It took Frank a moment. _"Voodoo?_"

"Frank…"

"You're saying that old man was the Voodoo god of _death?"_

"_Frank…"_

Vampires, tidal waves with teeth, magic attacks, serial killers using voodoo, super-secret organizations of psychics, weird cults, mind-readers, glowing hands — Frank had just reached his limit. "Death stops by for a friendly chat and a smoke and you pick a _fight_ with him? _That's_ what you want me to believe?!"

"That does make it rather convenient for me," said a voice from the trees, and both brothers rounded…

…as a massive dark tsunami wave rose above them, then crashed down…


	22. White Riot

_Why_ did he and Frank always land in deep trouble at the worst possible moment?

Panicking, Joe threw out his arm. Again energy leapt to his desperate pull, but this time, he struck _up_ towards the falling wave_, _a flash of gold impacting the dark_…_

…just as Frank dodged in front of him and lashed out with the branch.

The energy _exploded._

The shock knocked Joe back. He cracked against a tree and blacked out momentarily. He struggled up —

Frank lay against the ground.

Just beyond him, another man was bent over his knees, wheezing and clutching his gut. The tail.

Noise roared in Joe's ears; blood and salt filled his mouth. A yell ripping from his throat, Joe shoved himself up, tackled the man full on, and drove him back down. The man clawed at Joe's face and managed to heave Joe off. Scrabbling up, he threw a fistful of dirt into Joe's eyes —

— as Frank slammed the branch across the man's back.

The man thudded into the ground. Coughing, wiping at his face, Joe made it to his knees, spat dirt out. _"Frank!"_

Frank had partially collapsed, leaning on the branch for support. But then he shifted and swung the branch around and down just as the man struggled up. Frank thrust the business end against the man's stomach and shoved him back down.

"I don't know who or what you are," Frank panted, from clenched teeth. "But right now I've got plenty of incentive to make your day really bad."

"I wouldn't," Joe snarled, when the man started to raise his hands. Joe yanked at all the energy he could feel; his hands, arms, everything glowed brilliant gold. "If my brother doesn't get you, _I will."_

"You harm those children," the man snarled back, "and _I_ will get you. Touch them and I will hunt you down. I will shred your soul to the winds. I will erase you from all memory —"

Wait, _what?_

Noise erupted from the Center, people storming out onto the deck, yelling their names, getting closer in the fog. Joe stared at the man…

…_beware of your choice…_

Decision made. Joe grabbed the branch from Frank's hands. "Go on, get out of here."

"_Joe!"_

Joe silenced Frank with a glare. The other man stared, clearly taken aback.

"_Move!"_ Joe snapped.

The other scrambled to his feet, staggered into the trees, and vanished into the fog and night.

"Joe, what do you think you're _doing_?" Frank started, but shut up just as shadows rushed out of the fog, resolving into Joshua, Kris, Angel, and a couple others who'd been introduced to the brothers at the party.

"You two make things lively around here, I'll say that," Joshua said. "You okay?"

All the adrenaline and energy had run out like water. Shaking his head, Joe collapsed to his knees as his head, ribs, and gut chose that moment to _really_ hurt, and he bent over, retching.

"He jumped us." Frank leaned heavily on the branch. "I got him with this. But he cracked Joe against the tree, knocked me cold. He ran off, that way. Same guy that got Joe earlier, I think."

"You did more than get him, _chè,_" Joshua said. "That set off every alarm in the place. Cari, check road-side. Angel, go Bay-wise — don't go in the trees, just scout the line and stay in shout-range." Angel and the chunky Black woman took off, the woman towards the road and Angel along the tree line down-slope towards the cliff and the Bay. Joshua looked down. "Hawk?"

Kris had knelt, hand against the ground. "Same as before. No sig, no trace."

Drake and Mar had come up; Mar helped Joe sit up and handed him a bottle of Gatorade. Joe swigged a mouthful, spat to get the taste of bile out of his mouth, then took a tentative swallow, unsure if it'd stay down.

Kris was now looking at him, an odd, scowling look.

Focus on how much he hurt, how sick he felt. Joe did not want to tell them that he'd let the man go. He let himself sag, clenching his jaw around another retching fit. His gut _hurt._

"_Shiché'é,_ check him, please," Mar said.

Kris laid a hand on Joe's shoulder. "Easy, big brother," she said, then fell quiet for a few seconds; as had happened with Angel earlier, something feathered through Joe, light and quick. "He's okay. Got punched in the gut by a nuke, then overloaded his own system."

"Translation?" Frank said irritably.

"He's got a morning-after with none of the night before." Joshua squatted to look into Joe's face. "What did I tell you about not going out unless someone's with you, _chè?"_

"_I'm_ someone," Frank said.

"And I'm not a Blade," Joe snarled back, "as everyone told me today. So _you _don't have any right to give me orders."

"And I don't like scraping folks out of the gravel," Joshua snapped. "I'm on your side, remember?"

"They held him off," Kris broke in, "so I'd say Frank definitely counts as someone. Look…"

Frank _ow'd_, jerked away as she touched his wrist — the leather and turquoise were scorched, Frank's wrist ringed in red. Just as Joe's had been.

Joe shivered. The man had been serious; he'd wanted to take them out. But now the entire game had changed.

_Touch them and I will hunt you down._

"Can you two walk?" Joshua said. "We should get back under cover."

Treating them as if they were helpless. The problem was out _here_, not inside. Joe saw his irritation echoed in his brother's face and opened his mouth to snap at Joshua, but Frank beat him to it.

"The graveyard out here," Frank said, not moving. "Whose is it?"

A chill threaded up Joe's back: everyone looked blank.

"Where, dear?" Mar said.

Frank nodded towards the trees, but Joshua broke in. "We'll deal with that later_. _Both of you, _inside."_

"No, now," Joe rasped, struggling back to his feet. He wasn't about to let Joshua hustle him out of the way again. "This way."

The walk helped. To Joe's relief, the small graveyard was still there, though the hole the old man had been digging wasn't. For a long moment, no one spoke; everyone's surprise looked real enough, as far as Joe could tell.

"Sight, please, darlin'," Joshua said to Kris. "Anyone here?"

"Joe's got that, too," Kris said, but went to one of the headstones, kneeling down to brush moss off it. Mar stayed at the edge of the clearing, watching the trees and shadows as Angel came up behind her.

"Let me guess," Frank said to Joshua. "Sight's seeing things that aren't there."

Joe rolled his eyes.

"Close." Joshua went over to where Kris was and stared down at the gravestone. "Spirit-sight. Seeing ghoulies, beasties, things that go bump in the night, that kind of thing."

"It runs pretty strong in the Scotts-Irish bloodlines," Kris said, still focused on the gravestone.

"Hawk's a bit of a talker, too," Joshua said. "Spirit-talking, what most folks call a medium."

Joe went still. What he'd seen when he'd been delirious and half-conscious in the NOLA warehouse: shadowy figures watching from the edge of the circle…then, later, not just shadows, but people standing in the wreckage. Was that why?

He had encountered Samedi in New Orleans…at least, he'd encountered _something._ It'd touched him, warned him. He hadn't told anyone about it, not even Frank. If Samedi had been here, had he shown up because of the tail? And that bit about digging the hole and asking Joe if he wanted to know who it was for…Joe found himself staring at Frank. It made no sense. None of it did. Why would a Voodoo god take any interest in them?

He caught Frank's look, and Joe choked on a sudden bubble of hysterical laughter; he turned it to a coughing fit. Him + Frank = _trouble_. It didn't need any more explanation than that.

Kris was shaking her head. "If anyone's here, they're not being obnoxious about it. I'd get one of our real talkers out here to be sure." She looked around the graveyard. "There's supposed to be unmarked graves on the island, but I thought all the cemeteries were moved."

"Place gives me the creeps." Angel scowled around at the stones and the surrounding scrub. "The dead don't like being ignored, and we've been ignoring them how long?"

But Joe noticed that Kris and Joshua were staring at each other. Then Joshua shifted, studying the small clearing.

"Well, we'll start paying attention from now on." Joshua's gaze settled on Joe and Frank. "I'll scare up a bottle of rum from the café."

"A Happy Meal," Joe said, and Joshua grinned.

"This spirit-sight," Frank said quietly, "does that include those who've just died? Even if they've had a wake and are buried on church ground?"

Joe looked away. He had been only nine when Mom had died after a prolonged, painful fight with cancer. But he'd seen her, after, and Frank had gotten angry with Joe for "pretending". Dad had made Joe apologize, and Joe had run away from home that night, though he didn't make it farther than the Morton's.

"Yes, it does," Mar said gently. "Love survives, dear. Those who love us always care, even after they've gone on, and they can make themselves felt."

"Being forgotten can be torment all on its own," Joshua said, looking around the small graveyard.

"Sarge," Angel broke in, "we need to be gone. I don't like the feel of things here. Like we're being watched."

"I agree," Joshua said, with another glance at Kris. "C'mon, guys. You both need to wrap yourselves around some Gatorade, and I want Trevor to get a look at Joe."

Joe scowled, but couldn't think of any excuse to counter that. "This is your revenge, isn't it?" Joe rasped at Kris, as they picked their way back through the trees in the dark and fog. Walking hurt, everything hurt, and all he wanted to do was sleep. "All those years we didn't believe you, and now I've got to drink tons of Gatorade every time I so much as twitch with magic?"

Kris just looked at him.

"Thought so," Joe muttered.

"You said a ghost can make itself felt," Frank said, as they reached the deck stairs. He sounded troubled. "So if you…family, I mean…if they don't feel anything, would that mean it's not there?"

Joe was not going to look at his brother. He would not get angry over something that had happened when they were kids. It was over. It was done.

But he saw yet another look pass between Joshua and Kris, as Kris slid the glass doors back. "No," Kris said. "It could still be there."

"That's like saying someone's not in a building," Mar said to Frank, "just because you can't see them from the lobby."

No, Joe was not going to say anything. Not to Frank. Not yet, anyway.

People were still standing around the living room, in heated conversation — from their stances, Drake and Cari had been calming a lot of nerves — but conversation stopped the moment Joe and Frank came in the room. Joe glanced around, then stifled his sigh: Jamie wasn't in sight. So much for that. He should've expected it.

"Guys, war room." Joshua had paused at the archway, looked back at Frank and Joe. "We need the whole story."

Story? What more did Joshua want? Joe looked at Kris, at Joshua, then at his brother…and the whole miserable, painful, exhausting day boiled over. "I'm going to wash off," Joe rasped. "And then I'm going to finish off whatever's left of those eel rolls and fall flat on my face and sleep for a week. In that order."

"_Chè…_" Joshua sighed, rubbing at his face. "Don't. It's been a hard enough day."

_He'd_ had a hard day? "I can't tell you anything I didn't say before," Joe said through gritted teeth. Well, except for letting the man go, but Joe would deal with that himself. "The exact same thing happened, except this time _he_ attacked _us. _You want more, go ask _him." _Joe paused, seething, then the rest spat out._ "_I'm not a Blade, so that's not my job, remember?"

Dead silence.

Joe turned and limped back through the door to his and Frank's rooms, Frank right behind him.

"You know," Frank said, the moment the door shut, "Josh is on our side in all this. Snapping at him isn't —"

"If he was on my side," Joe snapped, not caring who heard; he wasn't in any mood for Calm Older Brother, "then he should've told Eli and Downs where to shove it, instead of humiliating me in front of the whole Center!"

"Joe, that was your own fault. He wanted you to stay out of it!"

"Which means it would've been behind my back, and God only knows what else they would've done!"

"_Guys." _Kris stood in the doorway.

Joe bit back his words, but before he could limp back to his room, Kris closed the hall door behind her, then took Joe's hand and laid it flat against the bricks.

"Here. Josh said he left a silence back here. If you're gonna be yelling, big brother, you need to know how to set it."

Joe swallowed his anger down, tried to relax and sense what Kris was doing. An internal twist, a bit of concentration — he felt the energy snap. "Thanks, Tag," he said. "_You're_ being helpful, at least. Save me a couple of those eel things, okay?"

"Joe, if you'd calm down for one minute and _think —"_

"Would you like to know what she looked like?" Kris said.

That pulled them both up short.

"_She?"_ Frank said.

"I kept seeing her at your house." Kris shifted from foot to foot, arms crossed around herself, looking from Joe to Frank and back. "In the living room, mostly. She was always watching you. I didn't know who she was, not until Frank said that stuff out there. Then I guessed."

The quiet words punched into his gut. Joe stared.

"About Joe's height," Kris said, "maybe a little shorter. She looked a lot like you, Joe, though her hair was wavier. But she had your eyes, Frank, really bright blue. It's rare I get color like that, but that always came through. She was wearing one of those Fifties summer dresses — some flower pattern. Roses."

Joe couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stare at Kris. He knew that dress. Mom had been buried in it. There was no way Kris could've known. Dad didn't have any pictures of Mom in the living room; it was too hard for him, he'd said, too many memories, too much remembering of how she died.

Frank hadn't moved.

"Grief can block it. You get so overwhelmed that nothing else registers. Or the spirit lays low, because she doesn't want to scare her loved ones." Kris turned away. "Um…I didn't say anything before, because I knew you wouldn't believe me." She paused at the door. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Frank said, his voice thick.

A heartbeat, then Kris turned back. "Joe…big brother…whatever happened out there…_please_ tell Josh about it. That's why we brought you out here, to help you deal with it." Her gaze moved from Joe to Frank. "Both of you. Please."

Then she slipped back through the hall door, leaving them alone.

Anger ran out, leaving only the heavy weight of exhaustion. Joe couldn't look at his brother. He just couldn't. Joe ached all over, ribs, stomach, head. He leaned against the bricks, fighting down everything that threatened to spill out, trying to gather enough energy to make it to the shower. Even the thought of those few steps hurt.

Frank stared after Kris.

"_Now_ will you believe me?" Joe said.

Bowing his head, Frank only sagged against the wall.

"I saw Mom. I talked to her. You _know_ I did. And you called me a liar."Joe's hands clenched around his crutch. He had to stop, had to breathe. "You and Dad…all this time, every time I saw something…"

"I was scared." Frank looked away. "I'm still scared."

Silence.

Frank's voice shook. "Knowing that stuff's out there. That I can't see. That can see _me_. That could be here, right now, right here, watching everything…"

"But Mom promised she'd watch over us. You're scared of _her?"_

"Yes," Frank whispered.

Joe stared. Frank — calm, in-control, older-brother Frank — scared of _Mom?_

"And people like Thatcher, that they can just do stuff like that. And…I can't…and somehow they expect me…" Frank's voice failed; eyes closed, he took a deep breath. "And out there, you saying that was _Death_ telling me that he'd see me later…"

"Over my dead body," Joe said.

Frank looked at him.

"Well, okay," Joe said, "maybe not the best phrasing in the world."

"That's you," Frank said, smiling slightly. "No matter what, you make a joke of it."

"That's my job." Joe reached, gripped Frank's shoulder. "Annoying younger brother, remember?"

"You're really good at it," Frank said. "Go on, clean up. I'll make sure Tag saves those eel rolls."

Afterwards, after his shower and the remaining eel rolls — the living room empty save for Mar and Kris cleaning up, and both Frank and Joe pitched in to help — still awake, unable to sleep, Joe sat on his bed, watching out the window, the Bay, the lights across the water. Finally he pulled out his guitar. He stared at it, caressing the wood and strings, then hefted it, settled it into his lap.

His left hand, the chording hand, hadn't gotten stronger; even a basic four-chord pop progression was a struggle. But having the guitar in his hands gave him something familiar to latch onto, and his first touch of the strings, that first faltering chord, tightened his chest around an involuntary, relieved sob. The guitar was a dear friend that sang at his touch, though now hesitant and stuttering. Joe struggled through the chords for a time, finally wandered into simple Sixties R&B, humming under his breath, strumming softly.

It was bare comfort, sitting with his guitar cradled in his arms. He couldn't sleep, not when he knew what waited for him. If he stayed awake long enough, sheer exhaustion would kill the nightmares. Hopefully.

…_spirit help you, in your heart…_

Movement at the corner of his vision. Frank leaned in the doorway, listening. Joe didn't know how long he'd been there.

"I heard you," Frank said. "Okay if I come in?"

Joe considered a moment, then nodded. He didn't put the guitar up. Having it in his hands was keeping him relaxed.

Frank sat at the foot of the bed, his gaze on the guitar. "I wish…" He broke off.

"So do I," Joe said, with a pang. "But it's done. It was just wishful thinking, even before." He changed the topic; it was cutting too close to bone. "Emptied Tag's shelves yet?"

Frank laughed, rueful, quiet. "Not yet. That _Real Magic_ thing is tough. You probably should read it."

"Only if there's a Cliff Notes version." Anything that Frank called tough, Joe wasn't about to touch.

Comfortable silence stretched out, broken only by faltering guitar chords. Sooner or later, Frank would bring up whatever was bothering him. Joe was used to it, waited it out.

"Pointed teeth," Frank said finally, and when Joe looked up, "You said that man had pointed teeth."

Of all the things Joe had expected Frank to say, that hadn't been one of them. Joe dropped his gaze back to his guitar. So Frank hadn't seen the man's mouth during the fight. Figured. It was going to be Stavlin and the mirror all over again. "He probably filed them. Hammond said this city was a freak-show."

Frank hesitated. "There was kid at Wings drawing you like a vampire."

So his brother had seen that. "I saw."

"Joe…he claimed someone was going to turn him into one. And you say that guy had pointed teeth."

Now Joe stopped strumming.

Frank shifted. "The kid said you were 'marked'. That you were a vampire, too, because of that mark."

His neck itched; Joe rubbed at the rope-scars. "'Too'?"

"I don't know what he meant by 'mark'. But he said he had it, too." Frank stared down at his hands. "He had track marks. And his eyes looked weird, completely dilated. I thought he was on something."

Those weird all-pupil eyes. "Rita — that little girl hanging on Tag — she asked if I'd been hurt by a vampire, too."

"That's too many 'too's' for comfort."

Joe looked away. "Tell me about it. But…this." Joe touched the rough scars around his neck. "The boy — Emelio — he said it was from vampires. That they'd hurt me like they did Rita."

"Vampire," Frank muttered. "Yeah, that's a good word for — wait. '_They'?"_

"Exactly," Joe said grimly. "There were marks on her neck. Scabs, bruises."

"Just great. And that guy warned us off the kids." Frank rubbed at his forehead. "It gets worse. I asked Tag if vampires were real."

_Frank_ asking if vampires were real? "I can't wait to hear this."

"Tag didn't get a chance to answer. But Ruth said there was a cult. Something about the SFPD finding them here, instead of just L.A."

"A _cult?"_

"'They'," Frank said.

Eyes closed, Joe wrapped his arms tight around the guitar. He was not going to freak. He was _not._

"If you think I'm going to apologize about Stavlin," Frank said, "forget it."

"I really, really hope you never have to." Joe let out a long breath. "Okay. Do we tell Josh?"

Frank looked at him.

"Right," Joe said. Not that he'd planned to, but it was good to know Frank was on the same wavelength. "Just checking."

"Tell him what? That a couple kids think vampires are after them? Downs was already calling you a certifiable section eight. Let's not confirm it."

Joe had seen enough episodes of _M*A*S*H_ to know what that meant. "I look horrible in a dress, anyway."

"What they don't know, they can't forbid," Frank said grimly. "Let them handle the tail. We'll deal with Wings. The kids can't be too much trouble."


	23. Ghosts of Future Past

_Light bore down on him, stark yellow-green fluorescents swinging on industrial chains in the old warehouse. Harsh. Glaring. No shadows to soften the blow. No darkness to hide what was coming._

_Hands crawled over Joe, old wrinkled hands, the soft hands of a professor, hands that stank of blood, hands that stroked, invaded, forced Joe's mouth open, yanked his head back._

_Suddenly rope tightened around his neck, strangling, crushing until black spots swam before his eyes…then let go. Again. And again. Convulsing, Joe gasped in, unable to do anything but heave air into his lungs. Even now, even at the end, his body still wanted to live._

_Darkness knelt in front of him, and it held a hacksaw._

"_You're most certainly not boring," it said, with an old, delighted smile. "Not boring at all…"_

Joe jolted awake, choked off the scream before it was more than a gasp. The lamp on the nightstand rattled, then stilled.

Only his room. Only his bed. Only light from the windows: pale and soft, fading everything in the room to smeared tones of dusty, grainy gray.

He lay there, gasping into the pillows to muffle the noise. He didn't need Frank coming in to check to make sure Little Brother was okay.

Cold. Joe was so cold.

Shivering, he pulled the blankets tighter. It didn't help. Finally, wrapped in the comforter, Joe pushed himself up and staggered over to the armchair by the window. Overstuffed and worn soft with use, the armchair was now covered in a hand-woven blanket with pictograms telling the Navajo creation story — a souvenir from Kris, after one of her and Mar's summer trips to the Arizona reservation. The blanket was soft, softer than any wool that Joe knew, the result of Mar's family experimenting with raising alpacas, and it smelled faintly of sage and cedar. It held no magic that Joe could tell, nothing save friendship and family-by-choice. Still shivering, Joe curled up into the chair, still fighting off the remnants of nightmare.

_Hands caressed Joe's face, pressed under his chin, forced his head up…_

Only a dream. A nightmare. Joe stared out the window; thick fog covered everything in rolling, hazy gray. Tendrils floated past, curling and uncurling into shapes that dissolved before he could identify them. The fog looked alive, a gray monster pressed up against the window, slicking it in damp.

Something waited out there, just out of sight in the gray haze, something after him, after two frightened children, something with teeth and magic.

…_gray metal glinting in unforgiving light…_

Joe shook himself. Just fog. Normal, for San Francisco. Kris had sent them pictures of the famous fog rolling over the Bay, shortly after she and Mar had moved back here a couple years ago. The out-of-focus Polaroids hadn't done the real thing justice.

He couldn't stop shivering.

Joe had no clue what time it was. Probably didn't matter. He was awake, but he felt foggy and thick, as if part of him still waded through dreams.

Get a shower. Clear his head.

He stumbled up and to the bathroom, paused long enough to strip his sweatpants off, then straight to the shower. The tiles were warm, the shower's pebbled-stone floor rough and soothing under his feet. Joe cranked the shower as hot as he could stand it and stood under the spray for a long time, letting the heat wash over him. It was different than he was used to: a wide circular head that let the water fall like rain, a lulling, lazy rhythm that let his muscles relax, and Joe caught himself nodding off again.

Not helping.

Yawning, shaking his head, Joe shut it off, shivered as the cooler air of the bathroom hit him, and dried off with one of the huge towels. The daze still fogged his head, as if he couldn't wake up. Maybe he should go back to bed and try to sleep.

Movement out of the corner of his eye. Joe jumped, heart pounding. The big mirror — he stood unmoving, caught. No way to avoid the sight: his chest covered in slash marks and wrinkled skin from acid burns, white lines of razor scars, the rope-marks around his throat, still raw-looking after two months.

Something clattered to the floor: metal rolling against the tile.

…_metal clattered to the concrete, right by his head…_

Joe froze, unable to move, unable to speak.

_Light bore down on him, harsh, unforgiving, no shadows. Convulsing, retching, he lay against the concrete, slick and damp with his own blood._

_Darkness knelt in front of his face._

Thatcher stood there, smiling. There, in the mirror.

_Then Thatcher moved, just enough to give Joe a clear look at the things near his head._

_A hacksaw…_


	24. Aftermath

_**A/N: Many, many thanks to Xenithia for the tips on San Francisco in the '70s!**_

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Sleep had been restless, filled with too much uneasy thinking, too many nightmares, too much that his brain simply would not let go. Finally, Frank gave up the battle. Thin gray light filtered in through the windows — along with a chilly draft — and he spent a long while staring out over the Bay. He couldn't believe how thick the fog was, a nightmarish, rolling wall of gray that engulfed bay, island, and city. He checked his watch on the nightstand — six AM — and resolved to ask Mar about an alarm clock and a space heater.

"Always the early riser," Mar said, smiling, as Frank came out to the kitchen after his shower. She handed him a coffee mug. "Omelet? I've got chorizo and _queso fresco_, if you don't mind a bit of heat."

He had no idea what either of those were — well, _queso_ was Spanish for _cheese_ — "fresh cheese"? "Sure. I'll be the guinea pig."

His talk with Joe last night weighed on his mind. He wasn't about to drag Joe in on anything like New Orleans, ever, even if it was just kids. Frank was too aware that they'd gotten lucky with that attack last night.

And hearing that the old man was _Death_…and he'd said he'd see Frank later…

"Always the curious detective, too," Mar said. "You and Joe should've been born cats, I swear."

Frank kept the chat on small things as he helped her chop sausage, shred cheese, and slice fruit…including avocado, which he couldn't help stealing slices to munch, to Mar's amusement. The ones from Bayport's grocery store were always rock-hard and flavor-less, but these were soft, melting, and buttery. Just as he was sitting down, Kris wandered in, still favoring her left foot, and grabbed the box of Cheerios from the top of the fridge. She took one look at Frank's omelet and shuddered theatrically.

"So when do your classes start?" Frank tried a tentative mouthful. Some heat, but not overly so, and the combo of sausage, cheese, egg and fresh salsa threatened to be as addicting as the sushi.

"Next week." Kris rooted in the cupboards, pulled down a bowl. "World Mythology, English core, and Drawing 101. It's all I could stand for summer."

"The joys of being undecided," Mar said.

"I'll declare a major before I graduate, I promise, _Shimá_. If you and Joe come with me, I'll have an excuse to borrow a junker and you guys can explore campus."

"Drawing?" Frank said. Saying that Kris could barely draw stick figures was an understatement.

Kris made a face. "Jamie's TA'ing it. She begged folks to sign up so it wouldn't be dropped for low enrollment."

"I think you'll be able to convince Joe to tag along," Frank said.

"I figured you'd noticed that." Kris snagged a couple bananas from the fruit bowl on the counter, passed one to Frank. "He's not up yet?"

"He was up late." Frank kept his gaze on the omelet; his own restless night meant he'd overheard too much again. "Insomnia."

Kris sighed. "I'll give you the honors of the ice-cube tray, big brother. You two have Drake this morning."

Somehow, Frank smiled. He'd been debating telling Kris about the vampire thing with the kids, but couldn't bring himself to, not yet; he didn't want to spoil the morning's peace. Instead, he pulled over the newspaper. The headlines were on the People's Gate deaths and their missing leader, but he put that section aside, found the classifieds. Something innocuous, normal. Maybe he could find used photography gear for Joe.

"Josh sent Harold back to Milpitas last night," Mar said.

"Great." Kris pulled the front page over. "Which means he'll be even more pain in the ass today."

"Have sympathy, squirrel," Mar said. "You know him and kids."

Harold…Harold Downs…going to Milpitas? Frank looked up. "People's Gate? The Blades were involved?"

"After the fact," Mar said. "Milpitas asked SFPD for help, and…well…Samuel's known for having unusual contacts."

"Josh sent Downs day after it happened," Kris said. "He said there's some really weird stuff freaking the cops out."

Frank glanced at the pictures under the headline. The usual pic of the People's Gate leader — the man looked like a bad Elvis impersonator. But the rest of the front page…the Chronicle hadn't pulled any punches with its coverage of the aftermath: small, pathetic bodies of children next to their parents. Unexpected sympathy for Downs twisted Frank's gut — no. There wasn't any excuse for the man's actions towards him and Joe. None.

"_No!"_

Everyone jumped — noise crashed, shattering glass, broken with that terrified, enraged yell.

"_Joe!"_ Frank shoved up and towards their rooms.

Kris grabbed his arm. "Frank, wait!"

Frank jerked free, shoved open the bathroom door, and froze. Shattered glass, brick, ceramic — the big mirror was now splinters, the brick behind it chipped, the counter and sink cracked and on the floor. Water everywhere.

Arms up as if to ward off a blow, Joe huddled in the corner opposite. He was wrapped in a bath towel, glass all over the cloth, his wet hair, and skin.

"_Shimá_, get Josh," Kris said, behind Frank.

That broke Frank's paralysis. Not caring about shattered glass, ceramic, or magic, he knelt beside his brother and gripped him by the shoulder. "Joe?"

Shivering, whimpering, Joe flinched back.

"It's okay, big brother." Kris dropped down beside Frank and added her hand to the grip. "You're safe —"

With a terrified cry, Joe lashed out with his fist in a flash of gold that had Frank seeing spots. Frank grabbed Joe's arms, trying to restrain him, but Joe fought, flailed, his fist cracking into Frank's face.

Then Mar shoved Frank aside. She caught Joe's arm without effort, then grabbed Joe's shoulder with her other hand.

Joe gasped, jolted, then sagged back against the wall, his eyes closed, gulping air.

"Tag?" Frank said.

Kris struggled up, then sagged over her knees, rubbing at her temples. "I'll live."

Frank laid a careful hand on Joe's shoulder. "You okay?"

Joe started to nod…which turned into a head-shake and a sudden sob, caught and clenched back. Sniffling, Frank wiped at his nose with the back of his other hand; it came away bloody. Mar handed him a washcloth.

"Jesus _wept…" _Joshua stood in the doorway; Frank stared — now was probably not the time to ask why Joshua wore an oversize t-shirt with a huge neon-pink triangle across the chest. Joshua's gaze rested for a scowling moment on Joe, then Joshua shook his head; his expression smoothed over. "That shook the building, _chè." _Joshua crunched across shattered glass and ceramic, knelt down next to Joe. "What happened?"

Shivering, Joe breathed in, deep and slow. "Thatcher. I saw Thatcher."

"It was just a nightmare," Frank said, but Kris stumbled to where the mirror had been and laid her hand against the wall. Odd. "Only a nightmare, Joe."

"But I — I _saw —_" Joe buried his head in his arms. "_God…"_

"A flashback," Joshua said firmly.

"Let's get him out of this," Mar said. She slid Joe's arm round her shoulders, and with Frank, helped Joe to his feet, then carefully brushed the glass off his skin with a wet washcloth. "Get him back to his room. Help him get dressed."

At that, Joe blinked, looked around at Joshua, Mar, and Kris, then gripped the towel tighter around his waist. Frank's head was now pounding; his face throbbed as he daubed at his nose with the washcloth.

But Joe stayed silent, not meeting anyone's gaze as Frank helped him limp back to his room. Frank handed Joe his jeans and sneakers without comment, save for a quiet, "Again?"

Joe didn't say anything for a long moment. "I saw…" Another tremor shook him. "I saw…all that. In that big mirror. And I was back. There."

"C'mon." Frank helped him back up. "You've got glass all over your hair. _Please_ tell me you're not going punk."

It almost got a laugh — then Joe collapsed back to the bed to sit bent over his knees, arms crossed and hugging his stomach. Frank sat next to him, his arm around Joe's shoulders.

"It won't stop," Joe whispered. "It won't."

"It will. It _will."_

Joe's hands clenched. "Promise?"

Frank tightened the shoulder-grip, brother-to-brother. "Promise. But it won't stop because of me. It'll stop because of _you._ Because you're my brother. Because you're _Joe._" He leaned into Joe's line of sight. "I'll have Dad send Fred and the baseball bat, if I have to."

That got a breath of laughter.

"You realize you gave Josh a real show." Frank smiled as Joe went red. "Let's sell him the towel. We'd get enough for pizza, at least."

"Photography gear," Joe said weakly. "And a new comparison 'scope. I'm not settling for anything less than that."

Grinning, Frank helped him up and back to the bathroom, waited as Joe brushed glass slivers out of his hair and onto the tile — Mar taking over when Joe didn't catch it all. Kris and Joshua stood by the wall, talking in low voices. That was even more odd — the bathroom wasn't that big, but Frank couldn't make out what they were saying.

Joshua noticed Frank's stare. "Jesus, handsome. You're getting a royal black eye."

Frank touched his nose, _ow'_d. Definitely tender, but the bleeding had stopped, at least. "I don't think it's broken." He handed Joe his sweatshirt, steadying him as Joe pulled it on.

"Frank," Joe said, shame-faced, "I didn't mean to —"

"It's okay. I should've ducked." Frank smiled. "For someone who hates hitting people, you pack quite a punch."

"Go see Trevor, dear," Mar said. "It looks broken to me."

Frank shook his head, grimacing as the motion set off another throb of headache. He wasn't about to leave, not yet.

"He'll be using it to get girls before lunch is over," Joe rasped. "Just wait."

"Come over here, _chè." _ Joshua crooked his finger at Joe. "Time for another lesson. Put your hand on the wall here. Relax. Tell me what you feel."

Something about Joshua's voice sounded forced — too light, too casual. Frank opened his mouth, then hesitated; he might only be imagining it. Curious, he watched, but there was nothing to see, just Joe leaning against the wall with one hand, head bowed; Mar left to get brooms and a trashcan. But then Frank glanced at Kris; she was biting her lip.

She noticed his look. "Y'know, if someone warns you about magic, not listening is not smart. You could've gotten a lot worse than a bloody nose."

"Something happens to Joe," Frank said, "keeping me out of it is _less_ smart."

"Well?" Joshua said to Joe.

"I…" Joe hesitated. "It's a huge tangle, like a wall of sound."

"You _hear_ magic?" Frank said.

…wait. Magic…was that why he hadn't heard them talking? Kris had done that in Boudin's, after all. But why here?

"Rafe does, too," Kris said.

"Some of us even taste it," Joshua said. Then, to Joe, "Try again. Anything feel like Thatcher?"

The silence this time was longer, but finally, mutely, Joe shook his head.

"Those are the outer wards," Joshua said. "Everyone works on 'em, so there's a lot of sigs there. Take your time and be sure, _chè."_

"That means Thatcher could hide," Joe said. "He'd slip in, and you'd never know it."

"No, Joe. If it was him, he'd want you to know it. He'd make sure it was obvious, so you'd know he'd gotten past the wards." Frank stopped; Joshua was giving him a master-class eyebrow-raise. "Well, that's how serial killers think. They want people to be scared of them, and they think they're invincible."

He knew what Joshua was doing — Joshua could have just told Joe what they already knew, that it couldn't possibly have been Thatcher, but letting Joe prove it for himself would drive the point home.

Wait. Kris had gone over to the wall before Joshua had shown up, the moment Joe had said it was Thatcher. That made no sense. Thatcher was dead, so why check the wall? Frank eyed her: her arms crossed, she wasn't looking at him, her gaze on Joshua.

"Told you," Kris said.

Joshua grinned. "You did, partner. That you did. Let's get this mess cleaned up, then Joe, darlin'_, _you need to eat. After Drake's done pounding you both into the ground, we're going to have a wonderful little chat. How much Sherlock stuff did you bring with you?"

So their tagalong had infected Joshua with her weird terms for Frank and Joe's lab gear. Without a word, Frank glanced over at the towel, then back at Joe — who blushed.

"Um…not as much as we wanted," Joe said.

Better, neither Kris nor Joshua nor Mar were making a big deal out of this — despite the blushing, Joe's stance had relaxed, and he was smiling.

"Oh, good," Joshua said. "Even more budget stuff I get to shove past Council. For _that_ pleasure, I'll buy both of you lunch."

"You owe us pizza," Frank said, with another glance at Joe, who blushed even harder.

Joshua's grin threatened to split his head in half. "That I do, _chè._ Gladly."

Mar came back in; she'd brought buckets, brooms, mops, and a trash can, passed them out without comment.

"Mar," Joe said, subdued, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to toss the bathroom."

"It happens," Mar said. "You said this has been going on since you got back?"

Good humor gone. Head bowed, Frank stood, hearing Dad's voice in his head, what _he'd_ say about the mess. "Yeah. This is the worst, though."

The first time, as Joe had jolted from one of his nightmares, shortly after they'd returned home: they'd managed to pass off the broken nightstand and lamp as Frank stumbling into it in the night. The second time, the closet door across from Joe's bed, had been trickier, and Frank had also taken the blame, as horsing around that had gotten out of hand. The third and fourth times, the same closet door _and_ the wall — thankfully, Dad had been gone on a case both times, and the brothers had managed to repair the damage before he'd returned, though keeping Aunt Gertrude out of the room had been a challenge that Frank never wanted to repeat.

Thank God Joe hadn't done this to the bathroom back home — that kind of explanation was not something Frank ever wanted to face. It'd been hard enough lying to Dad and Aunt Gertrude about the other times.

"It's okay," Mar said. "We'll deal with it. We've had a lot worse, believe me."

"But I _saw —"_ Joe shivered. "I wasn't asleep. I was awake. All the other times, I was sleeping."

"It was a flashback, dear," Mar said gently. "It's the way a mind deals with trauma. Kris had them, too. You'll heal, Joe." Mar's calm gaze included Frank. "You both will."

"But what if it wasn't?" Joe said, his hands clenched on the broom. "What if — that guy. Whatever he threw. Could it have done something like that?"

Frank saw the look that Mar, Joshua, and Kris exchanged. "Yeah," Joshua said slowly. "But not in the way you're thinking, _chè. _The attacks themselves triggered you, I think. That's the way post-trauma works. Anything that reminds you of what happened can set it off."

"It could be done by a 'path," Kris said.

"That takes time and concentration," Mar said. "Hard to do when you're in the middle of a fight."

"But what if…if he's still out there," Joe said, with a glance at Frank. "If he's able to hide his magic, he could've sent something in here…"

"The wards would've had holes if he had," Joshua said. "Like someone firing a gun through a wall. Checking for those holes — that's a bit advanced, _chè._ You'll learn, but for now, you'll have to take my word for it."

"Occam's Razor, Joe." Frank managed to grin when Joe gave him a dirty look. Well, that answered the _why_, at least. Kris might've been checking to see if the tail had attacked.

Silence held in the bathroom as they swept up glass and brick splinters and piled chunks of counter onto a plastic sheet for possible repair. The area felt staticky, just as the wall had at home — Frank got a jolt of static shock when he touched the metal faucet. Joe, though, was still quiet, saying little, not making eye contact, biting his lip whenever someone placed a bigger chunk on the plastic.

Something about the explanation didn't sit right, though, and Frank kept eyeing Kris as they swept up. If she had just been checking for the tail's mark, why cover up her and Joshua's conversation? Scowling, Frank picked up a chunk of mirror, and sighed at seeing his face. Blood-spattered raccoon, definitely, though he wouldn't win any points with the girls if he told them he'd been punched by his _brother._

"I'm impressed, _chè_," Joshua said to Joe; back to the too-light, too-casual tone, and this time, Frank saw Kris scowl at Joshua, "Kris only ever managed the closet door."

"Closet?" Joe said.

Kris sighed. "When I first got here, I hid in my closet for a solid week." Quiet, subdued. "They had to replace the door a lot. I kept waking up and not remembering where I was."

"After the third time," Mar said, "we left it off."

"Josh managed to get close at that point. He helped me calm down and get control." Kris nodded at the chunk of mirror in Frank's hand. "You can use my bathroom to wash your face off, if you want."

"Don't tell him that, Tag," Joe said. "I'd like a shot at some of the girls around here, before he restores himself to all his imagined glory."

"I thought you were from New Orleans," Frank said to Joshua. Frank had never known Kris to be that open about her past. What he and Joe knew was mostly from eavesdropping on talks between Mar and Dad. They didn't even know how old Kris really was; her original parents had thought birthdays were sinful.

"I am," Joshua said, to Frank. "Swamp-runnin' gator-eatin' Creole and proud of it. But Papa's a merchant marine, and some of his side's here, down in the Point. Cousin Ike told me about the Castro, and Alma sent me out for a visit. Ended up staying 'til I enlisted and went to 'Nam."

"They keep talking about this Castro," Joe murmured to Frank. "I don't know whether to be curious or to run away very, very fast."

"Both," Frank said.

"Always the sensible one," Mar said, smiling. "If anyone tries to take you bar-hopping there, don't."

"Jesus wept, Mar, don't warn them," Joshua said. "I want to watch their heads explode."

"The suicide drag shows are a lot of fun," Kris added.

"_Suicide _drag?" Frank started, then cut himself off. He wasn't ready for _that_ answer. "Never mind. Don't answer that."

"How do you know about suicide drag?" Joshua said to Kris.

"Rafe," she said. "Godz told him it was a fun way to spend a date and Rafe took me and Vão out last week."

"Oh lord — Finocchio's?_"_

"Uh-huh. Rafe wanted to leave the moment the show started. I couldn't understand why. Those guys could really sing."

"Partner," Joshua said, with a sly glance at Frank, "next time Godzilla tips Rafe to do anything, I'll pay you top dollar to let me tag along. _Tell_ me you got pictures."

Casual, regular, business-as-usual, as if what had happened was no big deal. It was also obvious Joshua was baiting him, daring him to ask. Frank slanted a fast glance at Joe: definitely calmer…and better, smiling.

But why did all this chatter also feel like distraction?

"Finocchio's," Joe said. "Avoid. Got it."

"Damn," Joshua sighed. "There goes my shot."


	25. What A Fool Believes

Back out in the kitchen, both Joshua and Mar bullied Joe into eating ("You use energy, you need to replace it, _chè, n_o excuses.")…which devolved into Joshua attempting to take over cooking, Mar banning him from the stove, and Joshua retaliating by body-blocking the fridge. It sounded all in fun, but something in Joshua's voice still sounded off, too much like Dad, and Frank couldn't relax.

Shaking her head, Kris passed Joe the Cheerios and bananas, as Mar finally allowed Joshua near the stove to fix his own omelette. After a quick wash in Kris's bathroom and a couple aspirin, Frank settled for finishing his coffee; it hurt to chew. He pulled the paper over to read through the classifieds for distraction, then paused: _Other Variations…?_

"MTF…CD…BB," Joe said, craning to read. "What's all that mean?"

"Don't," Joshua snapped at Kris, as she opened her mouth. "Don't. Say. A. Word. Such innocence is a wonderful thing, and I want to cherish it as long as possible."

But Frank nudged Joe, pointed out one ad towards the bottom of the last column:

_Neo-Pagan, Vamps, Otherkin, Donors: Curious? Interested? One of us? The Cabal of SF, Back room Lido's, Sun 8pm._

That was tomorrow night. Joe gave Frank a _look,_ and Frank kicked himself mentally — he should've kept quiet, but habit had taken over.

"Guys, seriously," Kris said, "don't even think of answering those. You really don't want that kind of education."

"As long as the textbooks are cheap, I can handle it," Joe said.

"Your father would have some words about that," Mar said, smiling.

Frank hesitated, then passed Kris the paper. "What about this one?"

She groaned. "Oh gods. The Cabal again. They never give up, I swear."

"Oh, _please_ take them with you," Joshua said, reading over her shoulder. "Unstoppable BS meets Immoveable Skeptics. I'll sell tickets."

"You're having way too much fun," Joe said to Joshua. "It's a dead giveaway."

Joshua's gaze settled on Joe. "Really._"_

"Out with it, Tag." Frank tried to smile, but it set off another throb of pain. "Before I hot-wire your stereo to play nothing but Joe's tapes." Judging from Joshua's reaction, it couldn't be the cult Ruth had mentioned.

"Thanks a lot," Joe said.

"San Francisco's the center for the Neo-Pagan and New Age movements," Kris said. "Pagans, Satanists, Moonies, Krishnas, any weirdness you can think of, it's all here, or at least got its start here."

"Even those white folk selling their version of the medicine paths," Mar said. She sounded disgusted; she'd always been vocal in her disapproval of white people claiming to follow native religion. "They started here, not with the tribes."

"People's Gate?" Frank said.

"Christian," Kris said. "They were pretty Bible-thumping."

"Only up until they pulled the trigger," Joshua said. "After that, only God can say. All religions have nut-jobs, handsome_._ No exceptions."

Joshua sounded natural enough. Maybe Frank was reading too much into it.

"Anyway, I'm Wiccan," Kris said. "It's the correct term for witchcraft, the religion of the Goddess. Coming out here helped me put a name to what I believed."

Frank kept his face carefully neutral. The tagalong had elevated her spooky stuff to religion. Just great.

"I did a lot of searching when I came out here. Wanting to find…well…a coven. I ran straight into the Cabal."

"Most folks here have," Joshua said. "They've got quite a rep."

"So they're Wiccan?" Frank said.

"More like 'all of the above'," Kris said. "When they say 'pagan', they mean 'anything that doesn't run away fast enough'."

"Send Frank and Joe to that meeting, Joshua," Mar said. "It'd be a good lesson in keeping a straight face in the middle of severe provocation."

"Frank gives me plenty of practice already," Joe said.

"You definitely take after your brother there, _chè_," Joshua said to Joe. "You gave me a hard lesson in just that last night."

"What about _otherkin?"_ Frank said, before Joe could open his mouth. Frank wasn't sure he wanted to know what was meant by 'donors'.

Mar now stared hard at Joshua, who ignored her.

"You'll love this." Kris laid a finger on the ad. "Some of 'em claim they're non-human. _Other. Kin._"

"What, like elves?" Joe said…and Kris just looked at him.

"You're serious," Frank said. If she started claiming _that_ was real…

"Elves, angels, aliens, you name it, they claim it. My final straw was when someone tried to claim he was the real Superman and that DC had ripped off his life story — oh gods, Frank, don't look at me like that. I'm not _that_ gullible. The Cabal's a joke."

"Vamps," Frank said. "Vampires?"

Now Kris gave him a long look. "Y'know, you asked about that yesterday, and I didn't think…okay. Why are you suddenly interested in vampires?"

"Joe did say that man had pointed teeth, darlin'," Joshua said. "When he finally told me about it, I mean."

Uh-oh. Frank did not like Joshua's expression.

"Frank asked before that," Kris said. "Out with it, big brother."

She would have to say that out loud. Frank shifted uncomfortably. They'd never lied to each other, no matter what, and Frank didn't want to break that trust, not over this. But Joshua and Mar were sitting right there, and Mar was on Council. She'd be honor-bound to stop Joe, at least, and the way Joshua was acting…

"Is this about Transylvania, dear?" Mar said.

Frank hadn't expected Mar to provide him with such a ready out. "Uh…sort of."

"Transylvania?" Joshua said. "Are you kidding me, handsome? You didn't tell us this one last night." Just a bare pause. "That seems to be a running theme with you two."

"You would bring that up," Joe muttered at Frank.

"It's a long story," Frank said. Thank God, now he didn't have to lie. "We were helping Dad hunt down art thefts in Europe last June. The guy behind it claimed to be descended from Vlad Dracul."

"Vlad the Impaler, aka Dracula," Kris said to Joshua. "He was Bram Stoker's inspiration for the character."

"He was still a real person," Mar said. "So he'd have descendants somewhere. Stavlin might have told the truth on that point."

"And Joe…well…" Frank glanced at his brother. There just wasn't a polite way to say it.

"Fine," Joe rolled his eyes, "be that way. Stavlin didn't have a reflection in the mirror. I was standing right there. I saw it, but no one else did."

"A trick mirror," Frank said.

"That was some trick, because I could see the cop next to him just fine," Joe said, glaring. "And Stavlin attacked people. He left bite marks on their neck. Dad lost a few pints of blood, and the monks couldn't explain why."

"Stavlin was psychotic. There's plenty of ways Dad could've lost that blood —" Frank cut himself off; Joe didn't need to be reminded of that. "It's just…now I'm wondering…"

"You're wondering if maybe it was real, after all," Joshua finished for him.

"Oh, this apology is going to be so, so sweet," Joe said, grinning.

"Funny," Joshua said. "I was about to say something similar to you, _chè."_

Someone cleared his throat, making them all turn. "I hate to interrupt your conquests, butterfly," Harold Downs leaned in the archway, "but I'm getting ready to head back down to Milpitas. Can you spare a few minutes of your busy social life?"

Joshua closed his eyes, sighed. "Sure, Harold." He pushed himself up. "I want to hear the whole story," he said to Frank. "I'll have it out of you at lunch. Fair warning, darlin'."

"Going on a date already," Downs said, his gaze cold on Frank. "You're a fast mover. That how you got in the Blades, _boy?"_

"I don't know," Frank said, glaring back. "What did _you_ have to do?"

"That's _enough,"_ Mar said, getting to her feet. "Harold, you said you had business. Fine. But in my house, all of you will keep civil tongues in your head. Is that understood?"

"Oh, I understand all right," Downs said. "I understand _bait_ and his brother all too well."

"Harold," Mar said. "Once more, and it goes to Eli."

Arms crossed, Downs said nothing.

Joshua sighed. "The war-room, Harold. I'll be right down."

"Go with him, squirrel," Mar said to Kris. "Harold found some things that you might be able to help with."

"But _Shimá _—"

"I'm insisting, darlin'," Joshua said. "Mama Hawk's right. Time to put all that your book-learning to use."

"You're not getting out of the explanation," Kris said to Frank.

"I won't let him forget, Tag," Joe said. "I want that apology."

"You keep taking the words out of my mouth, _chè," _Joshua said. "Because I'm owed an apology. No, Mama Hawk, you're not shutting me up this time. I'm starting and finishing this _now_."

Joe had gone still.

"You said a lot of shit last night, right in front of everyone," Joshua said, "and then you took off without giving me any chance to answer your accusations, and _then_ you yelled out even more shit behind my back that the whole room heard. Now _I'll_ be blunt. I'm damn tired of sticking my neck out for you, and I'm not going to let you swing the axe with everyone else. Got that?"

"Josh…" Frank started.

"This isn't about you, _chè. _We had our problem yesterday, and that's settled. Now." Joshua's glare settled back on Joe, who sat there, unmoving and pale. "You got a beef with me, you take me aside, you come down to the war-room, and we'll discuss it privately. You're not a Blade, I'm not your commander, but I do demand common courtesy."

Frank clamped his mouth shut. Anything he added would just make it worse.

Head bowed, Joe said nothing.

"You called me out in public," Joshua said, "and I've called you out, with rather more justification. We're even. And now I've got to go deal with ol' Harold, who's probably going to do more yelling about my decision to give you and your brother a chance. I'll be back later, since I did promise you lunch and I keep my promises."

"Josh…I didn't…I mean…"

"Later, I said," Joshua cut Joe off. "There's Blade business right now. And like you kept reminding me last night, you're not a Blade. Hawk?"

Silence dropped on the room as Joshua and Kris left, though Kris paused at the archway, glanced back at the brothers as if to say something, but then ducked out after Joshua.

Mar sighed. "He could've timed that better. But…it needed said."

Joe looked stricken. "Mar?"

Mar only looked at him…and Joe dropped his gaze.

"Milpitas," Frank said, trying to change the topic. Anything to get that expression off Joe's face. "People's Gate, again."

"Yes," Mar said. "Harold is our cult expert. He's helping Milpitas PD and the FBI with it. And your little tagalong is our folklore and ritual magic go-to person. All those spooky stories she loved…well. Harold found some things that don't fit the usual cult pattern."

Cult…and Ruth had mentioned a vampire cult. A kid claimed he was going to be turned into a vampire, a couple kids had asked Joe if he'd been attacked by vampires…and the man tailing Joe supposedly had pointed teeth. Frank breathed out.

"Now." Mar settled into one of the kitchen chairs. "What's this about vampires?"

Mar had always been impossible to lie to, and her calm questions were as rough as Dad's interrogations. And when Dad got involved, Frank and Joe had learned the only — and temporary — escape was a mumbled apology and a fast duck out the back door.

Well, no harm in trying. "I just don't want to have to go back to Transylvania."

"You don't want to admit I was right, you mean," Joe said, subdued.

Frank hesitated, then reached out to grip Joe's arm. Solid, comforting, brother-to-brother.

Mar, though, only looked at Frank. "That's all you wish to say?" Quiet. Calm.

Frank glanced at Joe. Trying to explain about a kid turning into a vampire sounded completely cracked, no matter how it was phrased. Telling Mar that they'd let their attacker go? Forget it. And if Mar took the explanation as an excuse to bar Joe or Frank even further from helping…Frank said nothing.

Mar watched them both for a long moment. "I know you two too well," she said finally, still quiet, still calm. "And one thing I know, from the depths of my heart, is that you never, ever, turn your backs on anyone in trouble."

At that, Frank looked up. "Mar?"

"I recall quite a few people finding out how much you couldn't be stopped, once you locked onto a problem." Mar got up to refill her coffee mug. "I suspect that some folks here are about to get a similar lesson."

Blank, he had to keep his face blank. Frank wasn't sure he could manage "puzzled", not with Mar watching him. Joe wasn't even trying; he stared down at his coffee mug, hands clenched around it.

"There's rules we run on." Quiet, calm, serene. "Things that we'll say, as a…oh, what's the current phrase…a reality check. The first, there's no such thing as coincidence."

"Dad says that," Frank said. "Once is chance, twice _maybe_ coincidence, three times conspiracy."

Mar nodded. "We normally don't wait for the conspiracy. Everything happens for a reason…though admittedly, sometimes the reason is 'just because'."

Frank and Joe looked at each other. It'd hit the conspiracy stage, definitely. But Frank held his silence.

"Two, if you find the problem, be ready to find the solution. If you ask the question, you're ready to hear the answer."

"Kris and Josh said that in New Orleans," Joe said. "Right before they hit us with the voodoo stuff."

Frank only waited. Mar was like this. It had to be important, even if he couldn't see why at the moment.

"The most important," Mar said, as if she hadn't heard Joe. "Be aware of your choice. And beware refusing it."

…_be aware of your choice, chè. Maybe I'll see you later…_

Frank stared. He couldn't have heard that. "Death—I mean, Duveé said that, to Joe. Before…I mean, before we…"

"No." Joe looked as if he'd been smacked with a board. "He told me to _beware_ my choice."

"It's one and the same." Mar's gaze rested on Joe. "The first part, to be aware. The cost of your decisions, the consequences. Whether you're willing to pay it and inflict those consequences on everyone around you." Joe opened his mouth; Mar raised a hand, stilling him. "New Orleans. You both made choices: Frank, to go for help, and you, not to run —"

"Mar, if I'd run, Thatcher would've moved them! He would've _known_ I knew —"

"And beware refusing it," Mar said gently.

Joe looked away.

"I'm not arguing your choice, dear. You both chose. You both followed through. You brought down two killers. You saved lives."

No blame. No anger. No demanding to account for every little action, every choice, every hurt, every scar…

…and Mar sounded _proud _of them.

"As I said, you both knew the immediate consequences. But it fanned out — your family, the Blades, the Association. Like a pebble dropped in water, the ripples spread. That's what that means, my sons. What you do, what you _don't_ do, it comes back on you, and you'll have to live with it, you and those around you."

That had sounded like a gentle rebuke on what had just happened with Joshua — it had gone from a question about vampires to this. Frank rubbed at his forehead, careful not to touch his tender eye and cheek. "So it's a warning, then."

"A reminder. Be aware of the whole situation. It's too easy to develop tunnel vision and decide that your way is the only one." Now Mar's gaze settled on Frank. "Keeping silent won't free you from those consequences, either."

Frank glanced uneasily at Joe. Yeah, a very definite rebuke.

"But your instincts are usually good," Mar went on. "You and Joe see with mind and heart. That's a devastating combination." Mar's voice turned decidedly dry. "Though I will say, the right choice for Frank at the moment is to get to Trevor and get that black eye seen to."

Frank sighed. "Yes, Mama Hawk."

Getting to her feet, Mar patted his shoulder. "It won't hurt for us to check on the Cabal again. I'll remind Joshua. But now, you've got an appointment with Drake. Trevor first, then I'll show you to the gym."

Frank helped Joe up. He and Joe were new; he had to keep that in mind. He didn't want to drag Joe into _anything_ like New Orleans, ever again. But all Frank could think of was the teen claiming he was a vampire, and Joe talking about that scared little girl with the scabs on her neck…

…_ran like a coward and left him to die…_

Then…

"Be aware of your choice, my sons," Mar said.

Frank had already met Trevor, the linebacker who'd scowled over Joe's legs yesterday. Trevor _tsk'_d over the black eye and swollen face, then laid a gentle hand on Frank's face. A static-electric sting — Frank forced himself to still as the pain faded, save for residual tenderness around his eye.

"Not broken. That'll take the swelling down, but you're stuck with the bruises." Trevor handed Frank two aspirin. "Come back here after Drake if the pain gets too much."

Then Mar lead them to the gym, another amenity Frank hadn't expected. Kris had given them a tour after they'd arrived, pointing out other living areas, work spaces, a pool — which had looked like no pool Frank had ever seen, surrounded in real earthworks, trees and plants inside a giant greenhouse. All of this spoke of serious cash, a serious investment in people…but for what? What return did the Association get on all this?

Hammond's words came back, disquieting, uneasy: _we don't know enough about them. _ _In case you start wondering who you work for_.

"You're not coming in?" Joe said, as Mar turned from the gym door.

"The Blades' sessions are in the evening, dear. I have to do a full grocery run this morning."

"So I'm not in the Blades, either," Frank said. It wasn't a question.

Mar sighed. "My son, this is open session. Drake needs to see where you're at. I can only tell him so much."

Well…that made sense. But…

"However," Mar went on, "feel free to show up tonight, if you wish. Drake'll be happy to pound you to the ground with everyone else."

"I'm scared to death of this man," Joe muttered, as he and Frank went into the gym, "and I've barely met him."

A number of other people were already in the gym, working in a variety of martial arts styles, including a trio involved in intricate movement that looked more like slo-mo dancing than fighting. Jamie was one of that trio, and from his brother's sudden stop, Joe had seen her, too.

In the center of the gym, directing the sparring, was a stocky, well-muscled olive-skinned man, shaved bald, black t-shirt, black jeans; the man's arms were seamed with scars, his left sleeved in an intricate tattoo of a dragon encircling a Star of David. Frank recognized him from last night: Drake. Drake caught sight of the brothers, came over, giving them both a scowling stare.

"I think the password is, 'Mar sent us'," Joe said.

Drake's expression didn't change. "Can you move without the crutch?"

"Some," Joe said. "Not very good."

"Show me." When Joe didn't move, Drake gestured. "Put that thing down and walk."

Joe handed the crutch to Frank, then staggered a few feet away and back; it hurt to watch. Finally Drake had Joe stand and resist his push, both against the shoulders, then against one hand at a time.

"What type of therapy did they have you doing?" When Joe looked confused, Drake made an impatient noise. "Physical therapy. What were they doing?"

"None." Joe looked away. "They said it wouldn't do any good."

Scowling silence. "That better not have been Boston Center."

Joe shook his head. Frank answered for him. "No. Specialists in Bayport." He didn't add that Dad couldn't see the reason for going all the way to Boston when there were "perfectly good doctors in Bayport".

"Idiots." Drake regarded Joe for a long moment. "Mar said you both have had karate. Belt level?"

"None," Joe said.

"Brown," Frank said. "I've been running him through _kata _for the last couple months."

"You mean you've been using it as an excuse to beat me up for the last couple months," Joe murmured.

Drake raised an eyebrow. "Oh? We have an _expert_ here, do we?"

"No, sir," Frank said. "Mar was beating the crap out of me yesterday."

For the first time, Drake cracked a smile. "Don't call me 'sir'. I work for a living. Qiao, Adam —" That, across the floor, and two of the slo-mo dancers came over, an elderly wrinkled Asian woman in sweats and a balding, red-headed man with a pot-belly, "— this is Joe. Start him on Rising Sun form, full sequence. Focus on feet and legs and keep him grounded and rooted. He's mage-gifted, so incorporate the energy work and keep after him until he does it right."

"Young people, bah." The old woman eyed Joe up and down, then poked him in the hip, frowning. "Never know how to stand properly. Over there. We start easy. Won't hurt."

"Much," the red-head, Adam, said, grinning. Jamie had come up behind them, eyeing Joe curiously.

"You're really Mar in disguise, admit it," Joe said to the old woman, Qiao. It earned him an eyes-narrowed _look_.

"There went the 'won't hurt' part," Jamie said. "For a Naive Farm Boy, you like living dangerously."

"It's a dirty job —" Joe's voice cut off in a yelp; Qiao slapped his hip with a sharp burst of Chinese and pushed him towards the other end of the gym.

That left Frank standing in front of Drake. Drake gestured for Frank to follow and stopped in the clear space in the middle of the mats. "Now. Let's see what you really know."

Then he attacked.

Frank had been expecting it, but wasn't prepared for the speed. He dodged, keeping his stance defensive; he'd already decided that the best way to handle Drake was to not close with him. Drake got solid blows in — pulled, about half-force, but still enough to sting — and after about a minute, Drake suddenly wasn't doing karate, altering form and attack and forcing Frank to improvise, pushing Frank to the edge of his range and beyond. Frank kept with the _stay-away_ tactic, and finally, Drake backed off.

"Okay," Drake growled; he wasn't even winded. "Mind telling me why you're playing dodge ball?"

Frank forced his breathing to slow, but didn't drop defensive stance. Drake didn't seem angry, but hadn't formally yielded, either. "The idea's to stay alive, right?"

There was a pause. "Well," Drake said, "now that you've proved you've got more brains than most of my students, we can get serious. Terah, Phillip — stop staring and get back to work. And _you two, _center. Now."


	26. Counterpoint

"You yanked me out of there deliberately," Kris said. "You didn't want me talking to Frank and Joe without you there."

She was still in the Blade's office, though now collapsed on the couch and holding a cold can of Coke against her aching head. Harold Downs had just left, after a long, exhaustive detailing of what he'd discovered at the People's Gate commune; there hadn't been much she could tell him, though she'd agreed to run down the research at the SFSU library. Maybe she could talk Frank into helping. It'd give her an excuse to show him the university library — Frank was a bigger book-hound than Mar — and the brothers could spend the day exploring campus, maybe even the Fort Funston beach.

What Downs had found: a sound-proofed room furnished only with a low altar, and in a chest beneath it, antique lancets and a blood-stained goblet, all engraved with odd sigils that he'd meticulously copied — none from _The Necronomicon_ and a few that she recognized from the _Grimorium Verum. _That meant there was a worrying possibility that the owners actually knew what they were doing.

More worrying: not everyone of the Gate was accounted for, including its leader.

On top of that, Frank's vampire question. Maybe there'd been something in the paper about the commune's suicides; there'd been leaks all over the place to the press.

But there was no such thing as coincidence. The Blades ran on that. And with Frank and Joe, that was doubly, triply, as-many-plys-as-she-could-pile-on true.

"I did," Joshua said, without a trace of apology. He'd sprawled in the chair opposite, his legs propped up on the oversize coffee table. "I didn't want you blabbing to your big brothers until we had a chance to chat, darlin'."

"You _lied._ You _know_ something tried the wards. And you said—"

"He asked if his attacker from yesterday had, and I quote, 'sent something in', unquote, and I told him the truth. The wards would have had giant holes if that had happened."

"He _saw_ the SOB, Josh!"

"And both you and I checked, _chè_. Nothing made it through."

"But you told Joe it wasn't Thatcher —"

"I did not. Your _everything-has-to-make-sense _big brother Frank did that, and Joe now has an explanation from a source he'll believe, along with the proof of his own senses." Joshua fixed her with a look. "There's no reason to panic them, _chè_. It was a flashback, that's all."

Not looking at him, Kris said nothing. Death could change one's signature — how, it wasn't fully known, though in the few cases Kris had run across, it wasn't a complete change. Maybe it was just decay, like death changed a body. But _something_ had tried the wards, something subtle, a stiletto pin-pricking the net to attempt to loosen the threads. Too small, too quick to get the signature, but…

Then again, _subtle_ and _small _hadn't been Thatcher's M.O.

"Look," Joshua sighed, "we've been over and over this. We'll train them. That'll get them ready to face whatever is out there, _without _giving it more power."

"You add Joe to the Blades' training and Downs'll haul you up in front of Council."

"Darlin', grant me some intelligence, _please._ Has it occurred to that blonde head of yours that I don't _want_ your big brothers to go through standard training? Look at where that's gotten us." Joshua leaned forward now, serious and intent. "Look at what happened with us and Karma. Vão and Rafe taught us that lesson, and no one's heeded it. And it would've cost us bad…if it hadn't been for _you_ thinking outside-the-box the way Frank and Joe taught you."

"And your Special Ops."

Joshua nodded. "My point."

There was a lot of the "standard" training that she ignored, methods that were too slow, too rigid, too material. Frank and Joe had taught her, in all her tagging along, in all the trouble they'd gotten into and out of: _whatever works, use it._

Mar had always encouraged her to ask questions, to never accept anything as a given — but that attitude wasn't common, and even Mar accepted too much of what the Association taught. Instead, Kris used techniques adapted from the Neo-Pagan movement that many of the Association old-timers disparaged as "Newage" ("rhymes with sewage"). But they worked…and worked well.

When she'd moved back out here, she and Joshua had meshed right in as working partners. Joshua's training was born of fighting in the jungles of Vietnam, and he'd had the experience and calm-under-fire that she'd lacked.

"Think on it, darlin'," Joshua pressed. "There's a reason _Nanaine _made NOLA call us in. Then we added in Frank and Joe. _That_ is what brought Thatcher down."

Kris looked away. "I don't want Thatcher coming at them again."

"I don't either, _chè. _If it's the tail, well, they're already on the alert. And Thatcher…it's a judgement call. Let Frank at your books, and we'll teach them our way."

It still didn't set right. Kris got to her feet; she'd heard enough.

"You going to hit up the Cabal?" Joshua said.

She nodded. "Frank had some reason for asking about vampires. I don't buy _Shimá_'s explanation."

"I don't, either," Joshua said. "Funny, I haven't known them that long, and already I _know_ them."

"Want to come along?" The last time they'd gone, one of the Cabal had claimed that Joshua was the reincarnation of Kunta Kinte, and that Kris was his reincarnated soul-mate from the plantation. Joshua had played right along, speaking in Louisiana creole…which the Cabalist had called Joshua's "original tribal tongue", and the rest of the meeting group had watched in awe-struck amazement at the "proof".

With the help of her 'path, Kris had understood just enough: Joshua had described what the man's mother must have mated with to produce such idiocy…in tons of obscene detail.

"I'll leave that pleasure all to you, darlin'," Joshua said. "Go ahead and take Frank and Joe, though. And a camera."

"You're still angry at Joe," Kris said, unable to hold it back. "That's why you're lying about the wards."

Joshua only looked at her.

Uh-oh. Kris shifted from foot to foot. She should've kept her mouth shut.

"No, I won't take that from you, Hawk," Joshua said firmly. "Joe's your big brother, but that doesn't give him a pass to shoot his mouth off whenever he feels like it. If he hasn't learned _that_ control yet, then Eli _may_ be in the right." Joshua fixed her with a glare. "And you know damn good and well I'm not lying."

Kris's head sunk down. "Sorry," she whispered, and turned to go, but Joshua was right there, holding the door shut.

"Partner, give me the benefit of a doubt, too," Joshua said, more gently. "You're caught in the middle, I see that. They're your big brothers, and they're angry and hurting over everything that's happened, so you think you have to stand with them, no matter what. Helping them is fine, but stand on your own two feet, _chè_."

Joshua let go of the door. Still not looking at him, Kris slipped out. She had to be honest: she couldn't fault Joshua. It wasn't lying…but not saying anything was somehow worse. Keeping quiet just wasn't an option, not to her big brothers.

Not wanting anyone to see her upset, Kris slowed as she hit the commons. Still, Joshua's points couldn't be denied. Given how Joe had reacted this morning — in magic, strong emotions were power, and lack of control made one too easy to manipulate. Add in Joe being an amp, and they'd be handing Thatcher a magic nuke.

If it _was_ Thatcher, anyway. There'd been no traces of any signature — but when he'd been alive, Thatcher had been adept at erasing signature. Dead, it shouldn't have been possible. It _couldn't_ be.

Then again, whatever had attacked Joe outside hadn't left a signature or traces either.

"You," said a voice behind her, "are one hard chick to run down." Before she could react, Rafe had pulled her into an embrace.

Caught off-guard, Kris resisted for a moment, then relaxed. Stocky, muscled, a half-Black, half-_chicano_ former street rat, Rafe was in his motorcycle jacket; he smelled of leather, the wind, and the Bay.

"C'mon and ride, _cielito,_" Rafe murmured in her ear. "Let's head to Tam for the day." A grin slid into his voice. "Vão can meet us up there."

Mount Tam was one of her favorite spots, especially the crest of the Plankwalk trail — an outcrop of rock right below the fire-watch station overlooked the Bay from 2500 feet up. Sitting on that rock, surrounded by sun and wind with the ocean and Bay below, was enough to make her buzzing and happy for the entire day. But she doubted that Rafe'd be satisfied with just that.

Still, it was tempting…but Kris shook her head. "Can't. There's business."

"There's always business. _Un poquito de veneno no mata, chica._"

"We're starting Frank and Joe's training today." Kris pulled away and headed up the stairs. One of the ubiquitous girl-gaggles in the commons was already whispering and giggling, their gazes following Rafe.

Rafe followed her up. "Let Josh deal with it. Jesus, girl, you're gonna end up in the nuthouse if you don't cut loose." Plaintive, "I'd like to get the most in before we hit the road, y'know?"

What part of this wasn't he getting? "I said I'm _busy._ There's a situation. What part of that don't you understand?"

He jerked back. "Wow. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Kris snapped, "except you not listening. As usual._"_ With that, she stormed back, shoving past others in the hallways without seeing them, and made it to her room, slamming the door behind her. She was not going to break down, not over this. She just was not.

Her wards flared, then there was a quiet knock on her door. "Kris?"

She didn't answer. She just didn't want to deal with Rafe, not at all. She was tired of always being on the defensive, of being the one expected to change her life around to suit, of…

"I'm not Vão." Tense, patient. "I don't got his 'path. I can't tell what's up 'less you talk." Quieter, "Please?"

Memory: New Orleans, Rafe lying in the center of that circle, certain of what was going to happen, stretching one finger across the juncture to just touch hers. Offering to die, to let everyone else escape.

Abruptly Kris went over to the door, jerked it open.

"If there's anything you could've said that's one-hundred-percent guaranteed to scare me white," Rafe said, "'there's a situation' is it."

"Then go after someone who's not a Blade," Kris snapped, but Rafe stopped the door before she could slam it shut again.

"I don't want someone who's not a Blade, I want _you._ _¿Comprende?"_ Rafe's voice was plainly _running-out-of-patience_. "There's a spot up on Tam I wanted to show you, up on the Plankwalk. Bit of rock looks over the whole Bay. The high up there is _amazing."_

That caught her. Kris stared at him in stunned silence, torn between anger, frustration, and shock. She hadn't expected that. She just hadn't.

"How bad is it?" Rafe was back to quiet.

"I don't know."

Silence for a moment. "Tomorrow, maybe?"

"_I don't know."_

"One of those. Great." More silence. "How long?"

Kris shrugged. "Couple hours, maybe. After they get back from Drake."

"Drake's stompin' 'em already? Girl, you people are _evil._"

Kris didn't move from her stance in the door, not ready to let him in, not yet_._ "It gets better. Jamie's doing one of her projects, and she's called dibs on Joe."

That got a short shock of laughter. "_That_ went straight to _Satanic."_

It finally called up an answering smile from Kris. "She's offered to sell me your pictures."

Rafe cocked his head. "It gets you smiling like that, it's worth it." A wide, cocky grin. "Grapes and all."

Now Kris blushed. Even in the ongoing freak-show that was San Francisco, that particular art exhibit had outraged a lot of people, and there were gleeful rumors throughout the Center that Jamie's next project was round two.

"How was much she askin'?" Still grinning, cock-sure.

That had the sound of an innuendo in the making. "I told her to donate them to Salvation Army." Kris turned away from the door.

Silence behind her. "Ouch," Rafe said finally.

She stopped, head bowed. He hadn't deserved that. "Sorry."

Rafe came up behind her, laid his hands on her shoulders. She didn't react, but didn't pull away either, and he stepped in close, wrapped his arms around her. "Couple hours, hmmm?" Rafe breathed. _"_Plenty time to make the bed squeak."

Kris only stood there. Again. Somehow the topic always turned to that, no matter how it started. Though she was probably to blame this time, by bringing up the drawings. But all she wanted was to just sit and talk, to hang out and do nothing but enjoy his and Vão's company. To be friends.

A small part of her wanted to just break down and let matters go where they would, but the other, louder, terrified part of her couldn't. Not yet.

For once, though, Rafe didn't move beyond the hug, just held her, his chin on her head.

Her wards flared again; Vão poked his head into the doorway. "Hey. Everything okay?"

"Everythin' 'cept her workin' herself to death," Rafe said. "The usual."

Vão sighed. "Yeah. Not at _all_ like a couple rockers we know, right?" He eased himself in to the embrace. "You shoved by me in the hall, girl. It didn't look like _anything_ was okay."

She was about to say "It's fine" and blow it off, but this was Vão. The truth came out instead, in a long, drawn-out sigh as she let the last of her anger go. "It's not." Bit by bit, the story made it out, everything: the attack outside, Downs, Joe being barred from the Blades, the attempt on the wards.

By the time she finished, they'd coaxed her to the couch, herself stretched between them: leaning against Rafe's chest with his arms around her and Vão settled against the other couch-arm with her legs stretched over his lap. Warm, comfortable, casual…on the surface, anyway. Rafe's arms kept tightening around her; Vão wasn't looking at her, his hands clenched.

She couldn't relax, either, not like this; it put her in an awkward position if things went further than she wanted. But…it was what boyfriend-girlfriends did, right? Cuddled on couches and stuff?

"Want me to bump their wards?" Rafe said, just a hint of a snarl. "_Puto_ won't dare mess with 'em after that."

"They don't need a city-wide blackout again," Vão said dryly. "Kris, _caro_, you're just guessing it was Thatcher. I think Josh's right, it's the asshole that tailed Joe. Maybe even Downs messing with 'em."

Kris couldn't meet his gaze. She'd been clenching the fear down since this morning.

"Think about it." Vão massaged her foot, slow, calming. "Frank's right. Thatcher wouldn't be subtle. _Caro…" _Vão shook her foot until she looked at him, "I _know_ what he's like. I didn't have a choice. I got him full in my head." Vão's voice shook.

"Maybe you should get a look at the wards, Carvalo," Rafe said. "_Puto_ can't hide from a 'path."

"No," Kris said; maybe she'd misread them. Maybe all they wanted was to talk, too. "I don't want Thatcher connecting us to you as anything other than bodyguards."

"Too late," Vão said. "Joe said it straight out_._ And I don't care. Let the SOB try. My money's on you and Josh."

"Her and Josh, hell, my money's on those big brothers of hers." Rafe's voice burred through his chest. "If that stupid _puto's_ gonna try them again, I'm sellin' tickets."

This was what Kris missed, just talking things over, hanging out. She had to admit, Rafe was warm and Vão had moved the massage up to her calf, hitting knots she hadn't realized were there. She let herself relax, just a little. "Thanks," Kris whispered.

"Rafe's right," Vão said. "You're running yourself ragged. Be still and rest your horses, _caro_."

"Y'know…" Rafe said, "…I could jump in. On Joe, I mean, with his Gift training. Josh's good and all, but I got him beat. Run 'em around the Point a few times, they'll lose the shiny quick."

"But Josh —"

" — knows his stuff, yeah," Rafe overrode her. "But he got raised in all this, day one. Even you got in young, _cielito. _I didn't."

Kris thought that over. It made sense. Rafe hadn't found out about his Gift until he'd been about Joe's age; he'd been taught outside of the Association in a harder school than anything the Blades did. The experience had nearly been fatal.

"And if you need me to lean on Downs," Rafe bared teeth in a feral grin, "I'm game."

"He won't listen to you," Kris said.

"I didn't say I'd be talkin'."

Vão shook his head. "Don't, Rafe. They won't thank you for it. It's gang-dogging and you know it. They've got to do it themselves."

Rafe sighed. "Just once, _once,_ I wanna fix somethin' by bustin' heads." Another grin slid into his voice. "Or maybe…" His arm tightened around her; he nuzzled at her neck, kissing her just behind the ear.

Kris froze. She hadn't wanted…she'd only wanted to talk…she didn't mean…

Head tilted, Vão watched, his expression shadowed, expectant.

As if daring her.

"You're all nice and warm, _cielito,"_ Rafe breathed in her ear. "Sweet comfy couch you got…"

Suddenly tense again, Kris closed her eyes, fighting to still the trembling. This was what boyfriend-girlfriends did. It was just making out. It wasn't any big deal. She shouldn't be freaking over this. But then Rafe's hand slid down further as Vão's hand slid up her leg…

"_Ow!"_ Vão yelped, as Kris twisted and jammed her elbow back. That combined with Rafe's own yelp and jerk ended with her dumped on the floor, but she scrambled to her feet before either of them recovered.

Trembling, vision blurring, she stood there, voice shaking. "_Ask! _Next time, _ask_ before you do stuff like that!"

"_Kris…!"_

Kris fled, barely aware of Vão calling out behind her and Rafe's muffled cursing. Mar should be back by now; if Kris stayed in the kitchen, just Mar's presence should —

Kris shoved through the door to the living room…and pulled up short, just as Vão and Rafe stumbled out and ran full into her.

Great. Just great. Not just Mar, but Frank and Joe were there, too, and Frank scowled as his gaze moved from Kris to the two musicians. Kris knew that look: _big brother had better not be seeing what he thinks he's seeing._

No, this definitely was not one of her better days…


	27. Renegade

Frank was ready to drop; he felt as if he'd been beaten with clubs, and Joe looked just as exhausted. Drake had pulled a couple of the others to start Frank on the basics of something called _krav maga_. Both of those had been suspicious and hostile, claiming "all targets are legal" every time a blow landed, until Drake finally set the pair to running the perimeter and took over the rest himself.

Still, a few of the others surrounded Frank and Joe in a chattering group as they left, Adam, Jamie, and Ruth among them; Adam worked with a recording studio in Haight Ashbury, which got him and Joe into a mock-fight over rock, glam, and disco. Frank noticed Ruth's smile and the way she kept looking at him — he was interested, definitely, but at that point, Frank only wanted a long hot shower.

"Y'know, you both would be perfect for my next project," Jamie said. "MoMA's been asking when I'm doing part two."

"MoMA?" Joe's gaze hadn't left Jamie since the session had ended.

Frank bit back a smile. Sometimes Joe needed a headlong shove when girls were involved. Fine, then.

"Museum of Modern Art," Ruth said. "Her first show had the whole city talking."

"More like up in arms and lighting torches," Adam said.

"Just the peasant rabble," Jamie said airily. "It's all part of my grand plot, never fear."

"I'd be happy to help out," Frank said, as Joe opened his mouth. "I find the post-minimalist works fascinating. Do you work abstract, or do you work with photorealism?"

There was a pause.

"He's got pictures of ducks on his wall at home," Joe said, scowling. "Ducks."

"John Audubon," Frank said. "He's an influential naturalist painter, Joe."

"I _definitely_ have to work you into my evil plot," Jamie said, with a sly glance at Joe. "How about tonight?"

"He's busy," Joe said. "You don't want him. He'll only bore you with stories about his girlfriend. His jealous girlfriend. They're practically married. I'm available, though — I mean, I'm not doing anything tonight."

"Um, Joe," Adam said, "you really should know —"

"I am busy tonight, unfortunately," Frank said to Jamie over top of Adam. Sometimes Joe was too easy to manipulate. "Hopefully my little brother won't annoy you too much. He's not very experienced in such matters."

"_Not very experienced?!"_

"Joe, you did flunk Art History."

That brought Joe up short.

"Then again, Bayport College isn't exactly on the forefront of the arts," Frank went on. "He could definitely benefit from extra tutoring, especially from a NEA recipient."

"Worm," Joe growled.

"Wow. You've revealed the Naive Farm Boy's weakness. I'm impressed." Jamie gave Joe another sly glance. "I had no idea that your rebellion's internecine political maneuvers were so cut-throat."

"I'm not worried. Joe's too innocent to be a threat." Frank had no idea what Jamie was talking about, but Joe didn't need to know that.

"_Innocent?!"_

"Ooooo, I can _definitely_ use you, Backstabbing Older Brother." When Joe gave Frank another evil glare, Jamie grinned behind his back.

A woman faster on the uptake than Joe; Frank was going to enjoy every minute of this. "We've got an appointment with Josh," Frank said, as Joe opened his mouth again.

"So tomorrow, then, my new Evil Minion?" Jamie said.

"He's busy then, too," Joe said. "C'mon, Frank."

Frank smiled at Ruth, with just a hint of invitation; she'd been watching with her mouth quirked.

"Perhaps we can talk later," Ruth said. "I could use some help with Wings."

"Definitely," Frank said. "I've got lots of experience you could put to good use."

Ruth's smile broadened to a wicked grin. With his own answering grin, Frank turned and followed Joe up the stairs.

"'Practically married'?" Frank said mildly, to Joe.

"Just saving my brother from having ice cubes dumped in his bed at three AM."

"You're welcome," Frank said.

Kris wasn't around, but Mar was unloading bags of groceries in the kitchen. "Use the shower in my hall," Mar said. "There's workmen in yours. Don't bother Kris. She has visitors. Oh, and Joshua's tied up with Eli — he said to tell you he'll make it dinner instead."

"Go on, Frank, I can wait," Joe said as he limped into the kitchen.

Frank bit back a smile, watching Joe dig into the grocery bags to help Mar put things away. Help, right. He'd better shower fast, or there wouldn't be anything left for lunch.

A bit later, showered, changed to clean clothes, Frank came back out to the wonderful smell of homemade tomato soup with fresh cheese-garlic croutons and grilled cheese sandwiches on thick, buttery slices of homemade bread. "Mar, you didn't have to do this."

Joe was already halfway through his own bowl and sandwich. "Frank, just say 'thank you'. That's a perfectly acceptable response."

"Yesterday was my soup-making day, while you were out." Mar sprinkled fresh parsley into her bowl. "I make and freeze enough for the month, and yes, I took _you_ into account." She smiled at Joe. "You're welcome to any of the food in the kitchen — you're our _guests,"_ she admonished,when Frank opened his mouth. "When Joshua adds you to the Blades' payroll —"

Frank blinked. "It's paid?"

"Yes, dear. You can start contributing to the food budget then."

Frank hadn't expected that. Dad had always claimed that room, board, and college tuition were enough for a pair of unlicensed teens. So the Association was giving him and Joe free college and a place to stay…and Frank would get paid on top of that?

"But I'm not a Blade," Joe said, not looking up.

"I just said you're our guests," Mar said gently. "When you start SFSU, you'll be on their meal plan, but I'll still plan for you here, too." She raised a hand, stilling whatever Joe had been about to say. "_In loco parentis. _You're under my roof. That means I'm responsible for your welfare and to act as your father would."

God, he hoped not. "But that still sticks you with the cooking," Frank said.

"There's such a thing as protesting too much, you know," Joe said to Frank.

Angry yells cut them off. Recognizing their tagalong's voice, Frank shoved to his feet as Joe grabbed for his crutch —

Kris stumbled through her door and out into the main room, Rafe Hollen and Vão Carvalo right behind her. All three halted.

Joshua had teased Kris about being involved with both musicians in New Orleans. At the time, Frank had taken it as only teasing. Now, seeing it plain in front of him, Frank scowled.

Not looking at any of them, arms crossed, Kris shifted from foot to foot. Vão glanced once towards Joe, then pushed past Kris to duck through the archway and out of the suite. That left Rafe standing there, staring at the ceiling.

"Joe, dear, go get your shower," Mar said. "The soup won't vanish on you."

Frank and Joe exchanged looks. Then Joe nodded and limped off towards Mar's hallway, as Frank settled back to sit at the table.

Rafe pulled Kris around to face him and said something too low for Frank to hear. Shaking her head, Kris pulled away. "I said _don't."_

"Fine," Rafe growled. "Be that way. This one's all your fault, _chica_. Remember that." With that, he stalked out of the room.

Kris didn't move.

"Are you okay, dear?" Mar said.

Not looking up, Kris nodded.

"Come get lunch, then," Mar said gently. "Josh wants to start Joe's training when he gets here."

Frank watched Kris as she came into the kitchen; her body language was tense, closed-off. "Tag?"

"It's nothing," Kris muttered. She snagged a bowl off the counter and opened the fridge.

Frank liked Rafe — Rafe had visited Joe a lot in the NOLA hospital, helping to keep Joe's spirits up — but Frank didn't like the way Kris was acting. Then again, she'd always been weird about boy-girl stuff; she'd never dated, as far as Frank knew. Maybe it was just a misunderstanding. God only knew that happened enough with his girlfriends, and Tag had enough issues for a roomful.

Still, girls were too easily over-awed by some things, and Kris…well…she didn't need a couple fast-movers getting her in over her head. Frank was going to have a serious big-brother talk with their little tagalong, definitely.

Hair damp, Joe came back and grabbed another bowl of soup, then settled into the chair next to Kris; Frank met his brother's scowl with a slight nod of his own. The rest of lunch stayed calm and innocuous, mostly Mar answering questions about the Center and Association. To Frank's surprise, Mar answered everything: how it was run, how it worked, even who the people nominally in charge were. Frank glanced at Joe, saw the same confusion as Frank felt. This level of openness…but Hammond claimed to have no information?

Kris said little, only finished eating, then pushed away from the table and vanished back into her rooms.

"Leave her be," Mar sighed. "She needs to work it out on her own." Then she handed Frank a dish towel with an impish grin. "Here. Since you were so worried about me working too hard, you and Joe do dishes."

"I wasn't worried," Joe protested. "I know you can clean circles around us —" Mar raised an eyebrow, and Joe raised his hands in surrender.

It didn't take long, thankfully, despite the brief sneak-attack rat-tail war that Joe started and Frank decisively finished before it got much beyond a couple yelps and mis-aimed whacks. "Let's walk," Frank said in an undertone, as they finished up. He glanced at Mar, who was getting a broom from the dust closet. Best to duck out fast before Mar got more ideas in her head.

"About time you started seeing things my way," Joe muttered.

"Don't go too far," Mar said, the moment the brothers touched the sliding doors. "Joshua wanted to start Joe's training as soon as he's done with Eli."

"One of these days," Frank said as he and Joe went down the deck stairs, "we'll succeed in sneaking around her, and I'll drop dead of shock."

"_You_ drop dead," Joe said. "I'll promptly go into a life of crime and thoroughly enjoy every last minute of it."

The day was cloudy and chilly, with thick fog coming in off the Bay again. This time, they cut across the grounds and down-slope until they got to the edge of the cliff on the Bay Bridge side (what could be seen of it through the fog, anyway), within sight of the café doors. The brisk wind off the Bay slapped Frank in the face with its chill bite as the water slapped the rocks below, and the air smelled of brine, wind, eucalyptus, and grilling meat.

"I should be at Wings." Joe scooped up a rock, hurled it towards the water. "Not here, not messing around with whatever these people think I need. Those kids were really scared, Frank. But now no one's going to trust me because they think I'm off my rocker."

"Are you?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"The obvious one," Frank said. "It'd save us a lot of time if you'd just admit it."

It didn't get the expected quip. With a heavy sigh, Joe bowed his head, leaning on the crutch. "Maybe I am."

Frank waited.

"I wasn't hallucinating, Frank. I know what I saw. Thatcher was _there."_

Joe had been that certain about Stavlin, too, but Frank wasn't about to bring that up. Not yet, anyway. "Remember what Tag was like?" Frank said instead.

Joe said nothing.

Frank snagged up a rock himself, threw it towards the water. "Jumpy. Scared of her own shadow. I remember her freaking out royal over a note, just because it had a word her father used."

"That's different."

Frank held his silence until Joe finally looked at him. "Joe, think how long Tag was with those people. Look at her now. If _she_ can heal, you can."

Joe sighed. "I'm jumping at shadows, you mean."

"Maybe. But some of those shadows Tag jumped at had real monsters hidden in them." Frank held Joe's gaze. "_You_ beat the crap out of your monsters. Remember that."

"Not Thatcher." Soft, eyes closed, head bowed.

Frank gripped Joe's shoulder. "And you're alive and he's dead. You beat him by surviving, brother. _You beat him._"

Joe raised his head. Frank held the gaze until, finally, Joe breathed out in a long, exhausted sigh.

"Come on." Frank tightened the grip, brother-to-brother. "Mar has to be done cleaning by now. You should have enough time to get a nap before Josh comes back."

Something cracked to their left, deep in the brush wood. Frank glanced, then froze.

The tail stood in the shadows of the elderberry and eucalyptus.

"Great," Joe muttered, "just great. God has absolutely no sense of proportion."

The man moved deeper into the trees, then glanced back over his shoulder at the brothers.

Well, he hadn't attacked; it looked like he wanted to talk. Frank hesitated, then turned to follow…

Joe grabbed his arm and yanked him to a halt. "Are you crazy? You yelled at _me _about going off alone!"

"I won't be alone, because you'll be with me," Frank said patiently. "We want to find out what's going on. We either do it now, when we're expecting the ambush, or it happens later on _his_ terms, when we're _not_ expecting it."

Joe stared at him; Frank couldn't read his expression. "One of these days, you're going to be wrong and I hope I'm there to see it," Joe said finally.

"Come on." Keeping a wary eye on the surrounding scrub, Frank moved into the trees, trying to keep the man in sight as he went farther into the brush. Frank wasn't about to be led into a trap, not that easily —

— someone grabbed him from behind.

Frank twisted, tried to flip the attacker over his shoulder, but whoever it was stayed stubbornly grounded and yanked Frank back and off-balance.

"Stand down, blood-mage," the attacker hissed, as something sharp pressed into Frank's neck, "or this one's life will decorate the trees…"


	28. Sympathy for the Devil

Frank didn't dare move, not with that sharp edge pressed against this throat. The man shifted a fraction, and the pressure jolted up to a sharp line of pain.

…_maybe I'll see you later, chè…_

"I was joking about you being wrong, you know." Joe had backed against a tree, and his hand and arm had come alight in that fiery gold. But he was trembling, his face sheened in sweat despite the chilly day.

"Joe…" Frank choked off, as the edge pressed in harder.

"_I said stand down!"_

"I heard you," Joe said quietly, "but I'm not stupid. I stand down, then you'll have both of us helpless and you'll kill him anyway. No go."

Frank wasn't going to panic. He wasn't. The reasoning had always made sense when Dad pounded it into their heads — but right now, as that hostage…

"You kill him," Joe went on, still quiet, still calm, "you lose your shield."

Of all the times for Joe to get logical…

"I kill him, he is dead," the man said. "After that…well. You are no match for me. I see how little you have left."

"We took you out last night." Joe raised his hand, the fog swirling in jittery foxfire around them. "You'd better be real sure of what you think you see."

…and of all the times for Joe to bluff with an empty hand…

"You are killing him." The man pressed the edge in tighter for emphasis, and Frank's breath hissed in.

"Funny, he looks alive to me," Joe said.

"Joe, will you stop the Mexican standoff?" Frank strangled out. "It's no fun on this end!"

"You think to get me off guard," the man said. "It won't work."

With a sigh, Joe lowered his arm. "Look, I attacked you the first time and I'm sorry, but you were getting your kicks scaring me, and _you_ struck to kill, I didn't. Then _you_ attacked us out there, for no reason, but I gave you the benefit of a doubt and let you go. And now you're threatening my brother. Forgive me if I don't exactly trust you right now."

Uncertainty wavered in the man's stance and grip; Frank felt it, a slight lessening of tension, and he shifted his feet…

"Now how about returning the favor and letting him go? We just want to talk, that's all."

"I just have to wait until you pass out." The man nodded at Joe's hand. "Then I'll have what I want, and you won't be able to stop me."

Just a little more…

"That means I'm no threat and you're just proving how much a psycho you are," Joe said.

"Maybe I am," the man said. "In which case —"

Frank grabbed, twisted, and threw the man over his shoulder. The man slammed into the ground, and before he could recover, Frank had him pinned.

"I wondered when you were going to quit goofing around," Joe said.

"How about _you_ stop goofing around and help?"

"I thought I was."

Frank was too focused on the struggling man on the ground to snap back, as the man got his hands free, lashed at Frank's face —

Suddenly the man gasped, froze.

Frank risked a glance: Joe stood just behind him, the business end of his crutch dug into the man's crotch.

"I'm not in a good mood right now," Joe said. "The only reason I'm playing nice is that you think we're threatening the kids at Wings. Start talking."

"For vampires, you have to drive it through the chest," Frank said.

"Yeah, well, I've got bad aim."

"Let me up," the man wheezed. "I swear to you, I will not run."

"You haven't done anything to make us believe you," Frank said. "You'd better start explaining."

"How do you think I'm going to act?" the man spat. "You ally with _him_. Maybe the bond of family blinds you, but I don't have that particular luxury."

Now that Frank had a chance to actually look, the man looked nothing like a vampire: medium-height and solidly built, olive-skinned, black hair that fell to his shoulders, a clean-shaven, chiseled face, leather jacket.

Well, okay, maybe the pointed teeth…

"One question," Joe said. "Are you a vampire?"

Subtlety and politeness had already been tossed out the window, so Frank couldn't blame his brother for taking the direct approach, but still…

"What will you do if I say yes?" the man said.

"That depends on what your name is," Frank said.

"And if you say Bela, Vlad, or Mamuwalde," Joe added, "your chest'll be my _next_ target."

Joe and his B-movies. But Frank didn't relax his grip or his wariness, not even when the man let out a short bark of laughter.

"Why should I tell you that?" the man said. "Especially a blood-mage targeting _children."_

"I'm not," Joe said.

"I am not stupid. The signs are clear to read, even if you hadn't so stupidly announced yourself as such. It's all through your aura, mage."

Startled, Frank glanced at his brother.

…_he's got the mark…_

"I was just trying to scare you off. I have no idea what you're talking —" Then Joe stopped.

"Your face betrays you," the man said.

For a long moment, Joe was silent, then, slowly, unbuttoned his shirt, just a bit. Just enough.

Frank looked away. Even after three months, Joe's scars were still livid, the waxy skin from the acid, the slash marks, the burn scars…

…the thin white lines of razor scars, marking out an upside-down pentagram.

Maybe one had to be looking for it to actually see that, but for Frank, it stood out. Luckily, Aunt Gertrude never had, had only seen Joe from the back, the one time she'd walked in on the brothers while Frank was helping Joe change bandages; she had enough hysterics over what she had seen. In the NOLA hospital, both Kris and Joshua had reassured Joe that the symbol wasn't active — Joshua had even brought in a priest from St. Mary's for ritual blessing…with Alma doing her own version shortly after.

But this man couldn't have seen that through Joe's sweatshirt. From what he said, something else was still there…?

The man had gone still.

"Joe was a victim." Frank watched the man's face closely. "The New Orleans killer."

"Thatcher worked magic on me." Not looking at the man, Joe buttoned his shirt back up; Frank caught the slight shake in his brother's voice. "I don't know what he did, exactly. Maybe that's what you're seeing."

Expression moved across the man's face. "Let me up," he said quietly. "Please."

Frank glanced back at his brother; Joe nodded and Frank backed off. Getting to his feet, the man picked his leather hat up out of the mud and brushed it off before facing the brothers.

"Forgive me," the man said. "But my name really is Vladimir."

Joe rolled his eyes.

"No relation," Vladimir added.

"As long as your last name isn't Stavlin, we're good," Frank said. "I'm Frank. That's my brother, Joe. You haven't answered our other question."

Vladimir focused on his hat, checking it over from every angle. "Do I look like a possessed corpse? Am I not out in daylight? By the way, that cross around your neck — the silver is not real. Nickel-plated copper, if that."

Raising an eyebrow, Frank looked at Joe.

Joe kept his gaze on Vladimir. "Telling what the metal is without an acid test. That's a pretty neat trick."

Vladimir shrugged.

Then again, Vladimir had grabbed Frank, not Joe. Frank decided to ignore it for the moment. "The fog might be protecting you from the sun, for all we know."

"You were wearing sunglasses when I first saw you," Joe said. "That hat has a pretty wide brim, too."

"Your minds are made up, then. So any answer I give is superfluous. Now…what is your interest in those children?"

"Funny, I was going to ask you the same question," Joe said.

"A friend took us down there," Frank said. No harm in answering that, after all. "She wants us to volunteer for Wings."

"The little white-knight mouse?"

"You wouldn't call her a mouse if you'd met her," Joe said.

"A mouse can seem to roar," Vladimir said, mouth quirked, "if one doesn't see the lion hiding behind it."

"What you see on Joe," Frank said. "That mark. Can anyone see it?"

"You can't, if that's what you ask," Vladimir said. "Any mage can, if they know what to look for."

"It can be taught, then."

"You ask odd questions. Do you think to hide it? It cannot be done."

Frank shook his head. "One of the kids at Wings claimed Joe was marked. I was wondering if that was what he meant."

"If I'd taught them, you mean." A quick flash of a sardonic grin. "No. I have not. The two I protect are not Gifted as that."

"Rita and Emelio," Joe said.

Vladimir said nothing.

"What are you protecting them from?" Frank said. "Other vampires?"

Vladimir still said nothing, only crossed his arms.

Time for a shot in the dark. "People's Gate?"

"You seem well-informed," Vladimir said. "You tell me."

Frank and Joe exchanged a fast look. "Why them?" Joe said. "Were they part of the Gate?"

"The people here protect Wings," Frank said, watching Vladimir intently. "If there's something after those kids, they need to know it."

"They are a treasure." Quiet. "A rare treasure, to be protected and cherished."

"Let me guess," Joe said bitterly. "They're your donors."

His eyes narrowed, Vladimir straightened. "Your minds are made up, I see. I've said all I can." His gaze moved to Frank: a brief nod, then Vladimir vanished into the fog, as if he'd never existed.

The gold foxfire faded. Joe sagged against his crutch, looking gray and exhausted. "Don't say it. Don't say a word."

"I wasn't going to." Frank brushed off his shirt and jeans — now soaked in mud — and his jeans pocket crackled. "But I'm thinking it."

Shaking his head, Joe was already limping back towards the Center. Frank checked the pocket — a crumpled piece of paper had been stuffed there, a hand-scrawled note:

_Tonight. 10 pm. Lido's._


	29. Answer

Joe had made it to the edge of the tree line when he realized that Frank hadn't followed, and Joe twisted around, in time to see Frank stuff something into his jeans pocket. Odd. But Joe said nothing as Frank caught up; either his brother would mention it or it wasn't important.

Joe waited a moment to see if Frank would say anything. "Vlad was after something," Joe said finally. "Something more than just warning us off two kids."

"No argument there," Frank said. "Should we tell Josh?"

Joe just looked at him. Maybe whatever-it-was hadn't been important, then.

Frank sighed. "Right. Forget I said anything."

But then they both stopped. The Center was quiet. A couple people were smoking on the café patio, but barely glanced at the brothers. No Joshua, no Kris, no Blades…as if nothing had happened.

"He's learning," Frank breathed, running a hand through his hair. "Just great. Now we'll have to tell Josh that the boogy-man knows how to get around whatever alarm system they're using. Can this day get any better?"

"You're looking at it wrong," Joe said. "We don't have to explain what no one knows happened."

"No, we are going to explain," Frank said. "To Tag. We're going to ambush her and get some answers."

"About vampires?" Joe said dryly. "Or about Vão and Rafe?"

"For all we know, it's the same thing," Frank said. "I've given up trying to second-guess this place."

To their surprise, though, Kris was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea in her hands. Her eyes and cheeks looked red, tendrils of hair still damp, as if she'd scrubbed her face. Mar wasn't in sight.

"Tag?" Joe said, with an uncertain glance at Frank.

"_Shimá _said you went for a walk," Kris said, staring at the mug in her hands.

"Er…yeah," Joe said. "Sort of. It was…interesting."

"Yeah," Frank said. "Interesting."

"Uh-huh." Now she looked up at them. "_I want to know what's going on."_

"Join the club," Frank muttered.

"That tail followed you, Joe. He's attacked you twice. You, personally. And you're both hiding something. You led us right to a graveyard and something happened and _you're not talking_. You got _Shimá _to cover you with that Transylvania BS, but _you_ were asking me about vampires before that."

Joe and Frank looked at each other. Joe shifted uneasily.

"Whatever it is — I won't tell. You know I won't." Kris looked away. "Everything that's happened…I've been watching you both fall apart since New Orleans. Knowing I can't help…that I'm part of the _problem…_" She fell silent, bowed her head. "Sorry."

"You're not the problem, Tag," Frank said. "You never were. It's just…I mean…we need to talk."

"Something happened," Joe said.

Vampires. Voodoo. Death. And two scared kids, caught in the middle: a little girl with marks on her neck, her brother trying to protect her, no matter what. Just as Frank had done. Just as Kris had done. Just as _Joe_ had done.

But now Kris was looking at him, and seemed to actually see him this time. "You look awful."

Joe sighed. "Let me get another bowl of soup and a case of Coke and I'll be fine."

"Gatorade," Frank murmured and smiled when Joe glared.

It didn't take long for Joe to get the food re-heated, though by this point, exhaustion was starting to hit hard. With a heavy sigh, he re-settled into the kitchen chair. He really wanted a nap, but this was more important.

"Are you okay?" Frank said.

"I'll survive," Joe said, but Frank gave him a _look_, then looked at Kris.

"It's normal, big brother," Kris said. "Really. All that this morning, and then you had Drake, and everything yesterday, and you really haven't given yourself a chance to recover. Toss energy around like that, you pay for it. Hard."

"Like your migraines," Frank said slowly.

Kris nodded. "Exactly. Sort of, anyway. There's some blood-sugar weirdness that's tied in with my Gift, but that's mostly right. Okay, spill it. What's going on? What's the deal with vampires?" She leaned forward. "And what's with that graveyard?"

Joe stared at his soup. He felt the weight of Frank's gaze, but couldn't meet it.

"You never did answer my question," Frank said. "Are vampires real?"

"You never defined the term."

"_Tag…"_

"I'm serious." She got up, rooted in the fridge and pulled out two neon-colored sodas, some bright-labeled Mexican brand; she handed one to Frank. "'Vampire' covers a lot of territory. If you're talking a creature that crawls out of its grave…well…the answer is 'I don't know'."

"Great," Joe muttered, biting back a grin; there, safely distracted. Get Tagalong talking about spooky stuff, and she'd be off and running. With luck, they wouldn't have to explain about meeting Death. "Get the crosses and holy water out."

Kris gave him a _look._ "That's Hollywood. Dracula uses some of the folklore, but Stoker made a lot of it up, and Hollywood corrupted it even more. You go by that, you're asking for trouble."

"The folklore, then," Frank said. "Before that."

"Well…a vampire's just a corpse. A suicide victim or a real bad person, or just an evil spirit possessing a body. A lot of the cases were just folks' imaginations running wild."

'A lot'. Not 'all'. But Joe kept his mouth shut. His imagination didn't need the help.

"Mass hysteria, you mean," Frank said. "Or maybe someone got buried alive and somehow managed to get out."

She nodded. "People would claim something was attacking them and drinking their blood. They'd dig up a grave of a likely culprit, and see a body with dark skin, teeth jutting out, blood smeared on its face, its gut swelling like it'd just eaten…"

Kris could be worse than a Saturday horror matinee, when she put her mind to it. Joe shivered.

"That's just how a body looks when it's been dead a while," Frank said. "From gases and the fluids collecting. The teeth — that's because the skin shrinks back."

"Well, yeah. But back then, they didn't know that. So like I said. You look at it that way, yeah, they're real…but just regular corpses."

"And someone getting buried alive isn't going to be very sane if they got out," Joe said. "I'd be ready to kill whoever buried me."

"You also said possession," Frank said.

"That's where it hits the _I don't know_ territory." Kris sounded as if she was picking her words with care. "Evil spirits exist — I've seen possession happen, both good and bad — but usually it's with live people."

"Corpses aren't as much fun," Joe said. "They'd go to pieces at the first sign of trouble."

That got him _looks_ from both Frank and Kris.

"Anyway, folks would bury bodies with all sorts of stuff to prevent it from becoming a vampire, but none of that would save you from an attack. Almost anything would kill it, but you had to catch it in the grave to do it." Kris's expression turned wry. "Cutting its head off worked at any time, though."

"But Ruth mentioned a cult," Frank said. "There can't be a cult of corpses…or is it people just pretending?"

Joe raised his head. Wait a minute…Vladimir…and the man had gone wooden at the mention of People's Gate…

Kris nodded. "Hollywood taken to stupid levels. People who believe they're vampires and claim they need to drink human blood. Funny thing, none of them ever imitate the folklore vampires, just the Hollywood ones."

"Well, that way they wear a nice suit and get all the girls," Joe said. "I take it they do their blood-shopping at the Red Cross."

Kris just looked at him again.

Uh-oh. "Kris…?"

Quiet. "Remember the ad's bit about donors?"

So much for his imagination not needing help.

"You have to be joking," Frank said. "No one would volunteer for that. That's insane."

Kris toyed with the soda bottle. "Last year, there was an ad in all the underground papers. Someone wanting a volunteer to be cooked and eaten. Everyone thought it was just a sick joke…until a videotape surfaced."

"I've got nightmares enough, Tag," Joe said.

"You asked. According to Sam, it was very clear from the tape that the victim was willing, every step of the way." Kris's gaze was on the bottle. "In magic, a lot depends on will. A _willing_ victim saves a lot of energy — think what Thatcher had to do to keep everything quiet."

All those bodies… Joe pushed his soup away.

"That makes no sense." Frank sounded sick. "How could anyone be talked into something like that?"

"Everyone has a price, big brother. I've gotten that pounded into my head." Kris looked up into Frank's face. "How far would _you_ be willing to go, to keep Joe safe?"

Frank looked away.

"Being willing…it gives more, too, doesn't it?" Joe shifted, uneasy. "I remember that kid's book…Narnia…something about death working backwards, that a willing victim who'd committed no treachery…"

"…being killed in a traitor's stead, yeah." Kris nodded. "You'd be surprised at how many so-called myths are based on truth." She was back to toying with the soda bottle. "But…the cult thing. 'Donors' aren't very common, obviously. So when they find one, a group forms. What I've _heard_ — and this is hearsay, from the Cabal — the pretend vampire doesn't drink much. Maybe a tablespoon a week."

"That can still add up," Frank said. "If the group miscalculates…"

Suddenly Kris looked up. "Or if it's a kid, you mean?"

Joe's hands clenched. A child…children were easy to twist around. Make them think it was all a game of monsters…or worse, that it _wasn't_ a game.

And Vladimir was protecting Rita and Emelio…

Kris looked from Joe to Frank and back. "Well?"

Well, they'd already decided to let Kris in on it. Joe let Frank take the Wings part of the tale, adding his part after Frank got done, everything, including the attack last night, Joe letting the man go and why, what had happened in the scrub…though neither Frank nor Joe brought up meeting the old man in the graveyard. Joe wasn't ready to deal with that at all. But…

Eyes closed, Kris steepled her hands in front of her mouth. "Rita and Emelio are the ones I was talking about, with CPS."

"I figured," Joe said.

"I saw them talking to you. I'd hoped that they were opening up. I wasn't expecting this." Her head sank into her hands, rubbing at her temples.

"And the other kid?" Frank said.

"Edward? He's the one the pimp was causing problems over." Kris shook her head, still buried in her hands. "Before you guys got here, Eme was bragging about a vacation his mom scored, a real farm in the country. That was last month. He and Rita came back right before People's Gate broke."

"Dear God," Frank said softly.

Something else occurred to Joe…and he had the horrible feeling he knew the answer already. "Tag…when Josh pulled you downstairs — what did Downs find?"

"If you say he found signs of a vampire cult, I'm going to dump ice in your bed at three AM," Frank said.

Kris just looked at them.

Joe's gut clenched. "That's not funny, Tag."

"I'm not laughing," Kris said.

"But they're all dead," Frank said. "That was in the papers. They can't be connected to this."

Joe couldn't help it; the words were out before he could stop himself. "Vampires. Corpses. Live in graves, crawl out at night…?"

Frank glared.

"There's no such thing as coincidence," Kris said quietly.

"Will you two _stop —"_ Then Frank stopped. "Oh…dear God. No. _Not_ all of them. Just whoever was at that commune."

"They were protesting at the art fair," Joe said, feeling sick. "And Vladimir side-stepped it when you asked, remember?"

Kris nodded. "The cops are still going through the ID process. They may not know who all died for weeks. But they found signs of survivors at the site."

Now Frank and Joe were looking at each other. It all came together, sickening, horrifying. Dizzy, Joe opened his mouth, swallowed, tried again, somehow managed to force the words out. "Rita…and Emelio…"

Kris stood, offered Joe a hand up. "C'mon, big brothers. We're getting Josh and we're going to call Wings and get Ruth to nab three kids. You just shoved this into emergency status."


	30. Breaking Glass

The children weren't at Wings.

Frank tried to be calm. All three were what Ruth called "drop-ins" — though Edward was a true runaway, as far as the staff had been able to find out. Rita and Emelio's mother — a hooker — lived somewhere in Hunter's Point. Those two dropped in almost every day to stay out of her way while she was working — though hearing that little Rita limped because one of her mother's johns had tossed her down the stairs…

Frank, Joe, Kris, and Joshua were in Mar's kitchen, with Joe on his fourth can of Coke. It took a good half-hour of talking before Frank and Joe agreed, reluctantly, that storming down there wouldn't do any good. No one knew exactly where Rita and Emelio lived, for one thing, and Edward was a street kid; he only came in to Wings when he decided to. According to Ruth, the staff had been trying to convince him to stay, without success. On top of that, it hadn't even been twenty-four hours since they'd seen the kids last, after all.

"Now that that's handled for the moment," Joshua settled against the counter, "this former Army sergeant is really good at hearing what his troops are not saying. And from what little you two said to Ruth, there was a _third_ attack that didn't trigger any of our alarms." Joshua's gaze settled on Joe. "You're not a Blade, _chè_. But _that_ affects the safety of the whole Center, which _does_ fall under my jurisdiction. Mind sharing?"

"Josh," Joe said, looking away; he looked half-asleep. "What I said…before. I didn't mean…I mean…"

"Drop it, _chè. _That matter's done. But I'd better get some details in the next few seconds."

Frank took a deep breath. "We met the tail again," Frank said, and went over what had happened…though he left out the note. No need to go into that, not with Joe right here, especially not if Joshua would forbid him from following through.

The brothers still kept quiet about the old man in the graveyard, though. Frank wasn't ready to deal with that at all.

"They found the problem," Kris said, when Frank and Joe finished.

"Darlin', don't you start." Joshua rubbed at his forehead. "I'll be the first to whine that we're woefully short manpower, but I'll be damned if I'll ever be so desperate as to throw two untrained greenies to the wolves. I did not want you two involved in a situation this soon."

Frank exchanged uneasy looks with his brother. Joe wasn't a Blade any more, but technically Frank was, and under Joshua's command. Not that Frank would let that stop him, but…

"With that said," Joshua said, his gaze on Joe, "given your damnable propensity for ramping things up to Defcon Five and the fact that you seem determined to ignore anything I try to tell you, well…I don't have any authority over you in this particular matter. If you act, you do so on your own. Follow me?"

Joe raised his head.

"If you get caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions," Kris murmured.

_Mission Impossible _had been the brothers' favorite TV show when they were kids. "There's nothing here to self-destruct, Tag," Frank said.

"Don't say that," Joe said. "She'll find something."

"_You'll_ find something, you mean," Kris said.

"What she said," Joshua said. "Frank, though — you _are_ under my authority. So I'm assigning you as Joe's babysitter, under Hawk's supervision, and you are to keep me in the loop, no matter what."

"Are you saying you're that desperate?" Frank said.

"Are you saying you're in a situation?"

Frank exchanged a fast look with Joe. "We don't know."

"Well, when you find out," Joshua said, "I'll let you know if I'm that desperate."

"Desperate for what, butterfly?" Harold Downs strolled through the archway, slung two rifles off his shoulder and handed them to Joshua, then gave Frank a cold smile. "Looks like I get to show everyone what you're really made of, _boy_. I'm so looking forward to this."

"Do you have the ammo belts, Harold?" Joshua said. "They weren't in the cabinet."

Downs shrugged. "I'll check."

"Looking forward to what?" Frank growled, but Downs was already back out the archway.

"He didn't go to Milpitas?" Kris said to Joshua.

"Sam called and told him not to bother," Joshua said. "The FBI _and_ CIA have gotten involved, and they're not letting nobody in."

Frank stared. "CIA? For a _cult?_" He wasn't liking this. Not with three children possibly involved, with one claiming he was going to get turned into a vampire.

"Um…guns?" Joe said.

As usual, Joe had nailed the important point. "M-16s," Frank said. Best to be precise, after all.

"Yup," Joshua said. "There's nothing we can do about the kids at the moment, darlin', and Joe's training _does_ fall under my jurisdiction. Out back, both of you."

"Let me guess," Joe said. "It doesn't matter that I'm about to fall on my face. Tag'll just drag out a crate of Gatorade and that's that."

"There's only a half crate at the moment," Kris said.

Joe gave her a _look._

"An enemy won't wait for you to be bright-eyed, _chè," _Joshua said to Joe. "And if you're that worn out, you won't go boom by accident. Get moving."

Sighing, Joe levered himself up with his crutch.

"I thought Rafe would help," Frank said, as he let Kris load his arms up with several bottles of neon-yellow Gatorade. "He'd said he wanted to, in New Orleans."

Kris only grabbed the aspirin down out of a cabinet.

Maybe best not to push, but… "Tag, do you need help?"

She blinked. "With what?"

"Rafe and Vão." Frank gently turned her back around to look at him. "Hey. You need your big brother to break legs?"

She looked away. "No. It's just…it's okay. I'm fine."

It didn't sound fine, but Frank decided to let it slide. For the moment, anyway. If he did find out either Rafe or Vão were hurting his and Joe's little tagalong…

Well, he'd keep his eye on the situation.

Down on the grass behind the Center, Frank settled; thankfully Joshua had left the M-16s in the grass several yards away. Whatever this training was, it was…well…boring. Joshua and Kris walked Joe through shielding — Joe leaning heavily on his crutch — but there was nothing for Frank to watch or do, though.

Scowling, Frank's gaze strayed to the trees; something moved, barely out of sight in the fog. Joshua was doing Joe's training out here, where Vladimir could see it. Frank wasn't sure what the intended message was, but he didn't like Joe being used as the carrier.

"Cramming in last minute lessons, I see." Arms crossed, Harold Downs stood on the deck.

"Get down here already. We need to get lively before Frank keels over." Joshua eyed Joe critically. "Take a breather, _chè_. We're not done yet."

"Oh gods, Josh," Kris groaned, but quietly, as Joe gulped another bottle of Gatorade and Downs came down the stairs. "I thought you were just joking about Downs."

"Nope." Joshua sounded too cheerful. "King of the hill, our way. Harold's our sniper."

"Wonderful," Kris muttered.

"You're welcome." Joshua's grin got wider. "Get over here with your brother, handsome. We're going to play a game. It's called 'Don't Die'."

"I _knew_ he was going to say that," Joe muttered.

"I don't think he's joking." Frank pushed to his feet. Downs was playing sniper…and there were M-16s in the grass. Wonderful.

"Me, Hawk, and Harold are out to kill you," Joshua said. "You two have to fend us off, any way you can. Joe, you are not to use any offensive magic. Shield only, you and your brother."

"Wait, back up," Joe said. _"Kill?"_

"This is a lesson in control," Joshua said patiently. "Which you don't have. Keep yourself and Frank shielded. _Magically_, that's it. I'm going to be tossing bolts at you — anything gets through, it'll sting like hell and you're 'dead'. Understood?"

A game…with Downs involved and Vladimir possibly watching. Great. Frank had no idea what Joshua meant by 'bolts'; Joshua didn't have any type of weapon. Something like what Vladimir had done? "How am I supposed to know where his shield is?"

"You're asking the enemy for info?" Kris said.

Silence. "Joe?" Frank said.

"What, you don't trust your little brother?" Joe said. Frank gave him a _look_; Joe returned it with an exhausted, goofy grin.

"I had to get you for a brother." Frank studied the space around them. It didn't look any different.

"Your call, Joe," Joshua said. "But I'm not done. Kris'll be coming at you. She touches you, you're dead. So Frank, _you_ are to stop her. For you, all targets are legal. All tactics are legal."

So Joe just had to stand there while Frank did all the work. But Frank held his silence. There had to be a point.

"Kill-touch only," Kris said. "That means I touch you on your chest or back, you're dead. I'll spark it, so you'll know."

"Wonderful," Joe muttered.

"You can kill by touching," Frank said. His voice didn't shake, much.

"With TK, yeah," Kris said. "If I'm keyed enough, I can rip arteries. But I need to touch to do it."

"You didn't do that in New Orleans _why?"_

"Because _butterfly_ there shot the bitch first!"

"That wasn't me, partner," Joshua said. "Blame Frank for that one."

Kris gave Frank a long look.

"You _told_ me to shoot over you," Frank said.

"This is all just _fascinating_ chat." Arms crossed, Harold Downs waited at the edge of the practice ground. "By the way, call came through on the answering machine — Ruth said Edward came in. She'll keep him there."

"We'll call her when we're done," Joshua said.

But then Joe choked; Frank went still. Joshua had handed Downs both M-16s; Downs slung them across his back, along with shoulder-belts packed with ammo.

"They don't have eye protection, so no head-shots," Joshua said. "That's an order. Get in the trees, snipe."

"Aye-aye, Sarge." Downs gave him a mock-salute, then headed for the nearby swings and jungle-gym. "At ease, _boy,"_ he sneered at Frank in passing. "Just paint-pellets. You'll get your pretty faces splattered, that's it."

Joshua was watching; Frank held his silence. Downs swung up on top the monkey-bars and settled in.

"Okay." Frank tried to keep his voice calm. "How're we supposed to defend against a gun?"

"You can't," Joshua said. "Harold doesn't know where you're at. You do anything that gives away your position, he fires, you're dead. Since you don't have safety-masks, he won't shoot at your heads."

"That's so comforting," Joe said.

"So what counts as giving away our position?" Frank said. The implication: Joe's shield wouldn't block bullets. So what was the point?

"You've both got brains," Joshua said. His stance was that of tossing a ball up and down in one hand — except there was nothing there. "Figure it out."

So Downs would likely shoot at the least excuse. "Wait," Frank said, "if Joe's shielding me, then why's Kris's stuff deadly?"

"Fair question," Kris said, with another glance at Joshua. "He's not shielding you, personally. He's shielding an area."

That made some sense. But it still didn't explain what Joe was supposed to be shielding _from._ If the shield was really there, for that matter; there wasn't anything Frank could see.

"We're going to be stupid honorable enemies, first time out," Joshua said, and from the jungle-gym, Downs snorted. "You two ready?"

Nodding, Frank settled into stance. Joe closed his eyes, breathed something out, then nodded himself.

Something _cracked_ right by Frank's face, and he swiveled. _What…?_

A hand slapped his back with a static-electric shock. Frank yelped, rounded, but Kris dodged away as Downs burst into laughter.

"Kill," Kris called out.

"What was that?" Frank demanded.

"I said I'd be tossing bolts," Joshua said. "You didn't believe me?"

"But I didn't see anything!"

"What, you think an enemy'll let you see what's coming?"

"Well, no, but —"

"You think you need to see magic for it to be real?"

Years of teasing Kris were coming back to haunt him. Frank said nothing.

"Or maybe," there was a dangerous hint of _be-careful-what-you-say-next_ under Joshua's tone, "you don't believe Joe's shields are there?"

Frank was too aware of Joe's silence just behind him.

"We tell you something's going down magically, believe it, handsome," Joshua said. "Unless you want a drastically shortened lifespan."

Frank was not going to look at Joe or Kris. He just was _not. _"Point taken."

"Okay, then." Joshua flicked his hand out.

Two more _cracks_ in rapid succession. Despite the lecture, Frank still startled enough that he almost missed Kris moving in. He body-blocked her — or tried. She dodged, feinted, and he followed out —

_Something_ shocked through him and knocked him sprawling. Frank kept enough control to roll when he hit the ground, just as Kris slapped Joe against his back. Joe yelped, lost his balance, and went to his knees.

"Double kill." Kris was already out of range.

"Tag, that wasn't fair." Joe struggled back to his feet.

"Frank got outside your shields," Joshua overrode him. "_You_ didn't share vital information with your partner, and that got both of you killed. Frank, you okay?"

So that was what Joe was shielding from; maybe not an easy job after all. Nodding, Frank got back to his feet, shaking his arms out. No worse than taking a hit in karate.

"You need to stay close," Joe said irritably. "I can't go that far out."

"It'd help if you told me _where!"_

Gunfire — bright red paint splattered Frank's chest, as Joe yelped again. Both brothers hit the dirt as more paint splattered the ground.

"Stupid noisy targets," Downs called, to a chorus of giggles. Several kids were now hanging around on the swings behind him.

"If you can hear 'em, Harold," Joshua said, "shoot 'em."

"Oh, good," Downs sneered. "_Bait_ there has such a noticeable voice."

Frank helped Joe back up. For a moment, the brothers only looked at each other, then, scowling, Joe started to draw a circle in the dirt with his crutch.

"Joe, c'mon," Kris said. "I'm an honorable enemy, but I'm not _that_ stupid. You really think I'd give you time to draw it out?"

"Let him, partner," Joshua said. "He's so nicely showing you where his shields are going to be. Just knock 'em out of bounds."

"Am I allowed to use echo-location?" Downs called. "The little girl has such a lovely echo."

Frank glanced over at Kris. Oh, the expression on her face. But she said nothing, only stood, arms crossed.

He also noticed the group of kids had added some adults to their number…including Drake and Mar. Great. Just great.

"No, Harold," Joshua said. "But if they take much longer, you can sneak up and open fire."

Despite Downs's taunting, Frank smiled. He was catching on, and better, this game made _sense_. Joe, though…his scowl deepened. He looked at Frank, then held his right arm out, full-length. Frank nodded. Arm's-length out, then.

Another shock cracked against the air, and Kris _moved_. Frank's awareness narrowed, conscious of the constant crack-strikes, of the small space he had to stay in as he circled Joe, of Joe at his back. Kris feinted, got past Frank's guard, and he barely stopped her from nailing Joe — Frank had never thought she could move so _fast_.

"Stop acting like gentlemen," Joshua snapped. "She's out to kill you. _Take her down." _

Easy for him to say. Then Kris got past Frank again, just as Joe turned the wrong way. She slapped Joe's back, and he yelled —

— light flared, golden and fiery —

Gunfire erupted, splattering Joe mid-chest; Frank had already hit the dirt. Joe stood there, breathing hard, trembling. The light was gone.

"Control it, Joe," Joshua said. "Light equals target."

"I'd do better if you people weren't hounding me," Joe snapped. "Tag, don't hit my back!"

"You're seriously telling an enemy where to hit you?" Kris said.

"Welcome to real life, _chè,_" Joshua said. "Be glad we're hounding you now, instead of waiting for another Thatcher to come along and_ really _hound you."

"I've seen enough." Downs slid off the jungle gym. "Butterfly, I've got better things to do than paint-splattering useless pretty boys."

"So go do them," Joe said. "We don't mind."

"_Joe,"_ Frank said.

"Y'know, Harold," Joshua said calmly, "you're absolutely right. Hawk, darlin', I don't think Frank and Joe see you as enough of a threat."

That stopped Downs in his tracks. "Oh?"

"I know she's dangerous," Frank said to Joshua. "I just can't see her as dangerous to _me."_

"You just had to say that out loud," Joe muttered.

"Change up with Harold," Joshua said to Kris. "Harold, take over what Hawk was doing."

Oh God. Frank stayed very still.

"Gladly," Downs said, as Kris took the M-16s from him. His gaze traveled over Frank. "Well. You get your shot at me after all, _boy_."

Frank said nothing.

"You've got to be kidding. You people outrank us in all this." Joe's hands clenched around the crutch. "How am I supposed to defend myself?"

"I thought your brother was a master of the martial arts, bait," Downs said. "Caught in your own bluff, hmm?"

"You're not helpless, big brother," Kris said as she re-loaded the M-16s. "You've got your arms and legs."

"Thanks a lot," Joe said sourly.

"You've also got that big wooden stick," Frank murmured. "And really bad aim."

"Like I said, Joe,_"_ Joshua said. "All tactics are legal, all targets are legal. Anything _non-magic_ you can do, do it. This is about you keeping your shield and keeping control."

Downs snorted.

Frank eyed his brother; Joe looked exhausted, but was too stubborn to admit it, as usual. "Josh, can Joe at least get some Gatorade?"

"I give up," Joe muttered. "I like the stuff, all right? I really, really like it. _Now_ will you guys stop forcing it down my throat?"

"Poor little babies," Downs sneered. "You think an enemy's going to wait until you're ready. I'd love to live in your naive world, boy."

"An enemy has to re-load sometime," Frank snapped. "They'd get tired, too."

"Point made." Joshua didn't even look close to being tired.

"You should see what we put Karma through," Kris added, as she tossed a bottle to Frank, who passed it to his brother, "if you think _this _is bad."

"You did?" Joe grabbed the bottle, tried to gulp it fast, choked.

"Maybe you didn't know, darlin'," Joshua said. "Rafe held his shields at NOLA. And he'd been shot full of heroin. Those bastards couldn't crack 'em."

Heroin, a Gift-killer. Frank knew that much. Joe sucked in a breath; Joshua nodded.

Joe re-capped the bottle. "Okay. I think I'm —"

Gunfire, electric cracks, simultaneous with two yelps and the brothers hitting the dirt again; Gatorade splattered everywhere. Frank clenched his hands; those bolts _hurt._

Downs burst into harsh, sneering laughter. He hadn't moved.

"That," Joshua said, "is the difference between classroom and real life. An enemy won't wait for you to get ready. Why was your shield down,Joe?"

"We were talking." Gulping air, Joe shook his head as Frank tried to help him, remained on one knee.

"No excuse. Keep that shield up at all times, no matter what. Frank, you've now got a partner who's exhausted with no mobility. That puts a lot more on you to keep you both alive. Up to it?"

Probably not, but Frank wasn't about to let them know it — it'd likely get an instant attack. The group of kids and a couple adults had multiplied to a small crowd watching from the play-area.

"It's no shame to admit to being weak," Joshua said, glancing at Downs. "We do this until you either surrender or you can't go any further."

Frank said nothing. Joe's face was set, and he gave Frank a _look_. Frank knew that expression. Fine, then.

"Can you give me any more space?" he said to Joe. Joe shook his head; Frank sighed. He'd deal with it, then.

Once, twice, three more times. In one way, Downs was easier: Frank definitely wasn't worried about hurting him accidentally. But in everything else, Downs was _harder_. It was obvious that he didn't consider Frank much challenge — Downs' moves were lazy, just enough sneering effort behind them to make Frank work, and that was it.

Jaw clenched, Frank wanted to wipe Downs's sneer away with one solid blow, but Downs was always just out of reach, never where Frank thought he'd be, getting through Frank's guard over and over with strikes that Frank barely avoided. Frank couldn't even play the defensive game he had with Drake; Frank was stuck in one position, he had to defend Joe, and the enemy knew it…

But for some reason, Downs didn't try for his brother. Frank risked a glance; Joe still knelt, barely upright and hand clenched around the crutch, as the crack-bolts struck faster and faster.

Two bolts splattered through with a visible electric flash. Joe collapsed when they struck, just as Downs tricked Frank into over-reaching. Another bolt nailed Frank, though Frank caught himself on his hands and knees before he went sprawling.

"So much for a _master_," Downs sneered, standing over Joe as he struggled back to his knees. "Falling for a baby-trick. And_ bait _can't even stand up to simple bolts. You wanted _this_ for the Blades, butterfly?"

"Enough, Harold." Joshua came over to help Frank up. "That's it, you're both exhausted —"

_Then_ Joe moved. He lashed up with his crutch, ramming Downs in the stomach; Downs _oof'_d and went down. Frank yanked Joshua off-balance, tried to sweep Joshua's legs from under him, but, more wary, Joshua turned it back on Frank, knocking him flat and pinning him to the ground.

Silence.

"All tactics are legal, right?" Joe managed.

"_That,_" Joshua said, grinning, as Kris war-whooped from the jungle gym, "is exactly what I'm talking about. _Both_ of you. Okay, _chè,_ I've got your brother pinned, and you're too gone to hold shields. Surrender. Game over."

Gulping air, Joe nodded, and Joshua let Frank go, backed off. Downs was still on the ground, bent over holding his stomach, cursing non-stop.

"Easy there, darlin'," Joshua said to Downs. "Be grateful he didn't aim where I thought he would."

"I did," Joe said. "I missed." He accepted Kris's hand up and leaned on her shoulder as he got re-balanced on the crutch, then, unexpectedly, grinned down at Frank and offered his own hand up, which Frank gladly took, grinning back.

The clasp moved to a tight shoulder-grip, brother-to-brother. A small victory, maybe, but anything that got Joe grinning like that again was worth it.

"This proves nothing," Downs wheezed. "Kindergarten tricks. The cripple wouldn't last two seconds in _real_ combat."

"A kindergarten trick you fell for," Frank said.

"He's right, darlin'," Joshua said to Downs. "You got cocky, and that got you cold-cocked. Now. _That ends it. _ All three of you. Understood?"

"Not quite," Kris said. "Harold owes you some serious pizza, Josh."

"_Hawk,"_ Joshua said.

"He likes shrimp and pineapple," Kris said to Downs. "With bacon."

Ignoring that, Downs made it to his feet to face Joe. "Come to _real_ session tonight, _bait._ Then you'll see where kindergarten tricks get you…oh, wait, that's right. You're not good enough for that, are you?"

Joe's smile faded, but Frank saw Drake over by the jungle gym with Mar. Arms crossed, Drake was studying both Frank and Joe, and nodding slowly.

"I said," Joshua said, "_that ends it."_

Downs only made a dismissive gesture and staggered for the lower door.

"It's bad manners to gloat, darlin'," Joshua said to Kris as they headed for the stairs. "Especially when you're taking _my_ gloat."

"Speaking of pizza…um…" Frank waved his index finger between Kris and Joshua, "who won?"

Joshua and Kris looked at each other; Joshua rolled his eyes.

"Okay, _now_ can I gloat?" Kris said.

"You bet on _Joe?"_ Frank said, surprised. Not that he cared. Paint-splattered, dirt-streaked, jeans soaked in spilled Gatorade, he couldn't stop grinning.

"Such a wonderful show of confidence in your little brother," Joe muttered, but he was grinning, too.

"You're the better fighter, big brother," Kris said to Frank. "But I've seen what happens when Joe gets backed into a corner."

"I call foul," Joshua grumbled. "That's fixin' the bet."

"Insider information," Kris countered, "based on experience. I like cheese and sausage." She glanced at Joe. "And tons of mushrooms."

"Joshua," Drake rumbled, from the foot of the stairs, "a word, please."

Joshua sighed. "Probably reminding me that I've missed the last few sessions." He trudged back down the stairs.

"Let me guess," Joe said bitterly. "The real sessions are for real combat."

"Big brother, c'mon." Kris slid the glass doors back. "Combat wasn't the point of that."

"It was teaching you shielding, Joe." Frank remembered too well what had happened with Thatcher. If that was what Blades routinely took on…

"And control," Kris said. "And I think Josh was seeing how good your endurance is. It was _also_ about teamwork — getting used to working with Gifts involved."

That sounded like a diplomatic way of saying _forcing-you-skeptical-idiots-to-admit-this-stuff's-real._ Frank sighed. New Orleans had proved it, but now every last bruise and lingering sting of magic-shock _understood _it.

"Combat's not what we're about, _chè." _Joshua had come back up behind them. "Don't tell me you took the pain in the neck seriously."

Frank and Joe exchanged another look. "So maybe it's time to ask," Frank said. "What _are_ you about? I mean, stuff like New Orleans, that's not common —" He saw their faces, hesitated, "— is it?"

Joshua grinned. "Tell you what. Clean up, let Joe catch a nap, and I'll treat for dinner, like I promised. We can have that good long chat. Partner, you want to tag along?"

Kris shook her head. "I'll be at Wings. Um…big brothers, I know you want to help…but it might be best if I handle Edward."

"Joe has a date with Jamie tonight, anyway," Frank said, with a sly glance at Joe. "He can't be out late."

"Fast-mover," Joshua said. "I like that in my men."

"For Jamie, that's slow," Kris said. "Joe's been here three days already."

"It's not a date," Joe said. "I'm helping her with an art project. The second part of her MoMA show. Some postmodern thing."

As usual, Joe was trying too hard to sound like he knew what he was talking about. Suddenly Joshua's expression was _too_ innocent…and Kris blushed.

"We'll definitely have you back in time for that," Joshua said. "Mind if I watch?"

"Um…" Joe looked at Frank, then at Kris. "Sure, I guess. She wanted Frank, too, but…"

"You turned her _down?" _Joshua said to Frank.

Kris was looking anywhere but at them. "I have other plans," Frank said. No, definitely not going to mention Vladimir's note.

But Joe was now eyeing Frank. Forget it. Frank was not going to drag him into it.

"Damn the luck," Joshua murmured. "Just for that wonderful pleasure, _chè,_ I know I promised you pizza, butlet's take this out to Burn The Tail instead, my treat."

"Burn the what?" Joe said.

"Godzilla's restaurant, out in the Castro," Kris said. "It's an up-and-coming Japanese place."

"Japanese _fusion,"_ Joshua said. "Which means they've dumbed it down for us stupid Americans. Which is good, because I can't handle baby octopus. Something that cute should not be food."

"You have to admit, the wasabi ice cream's pretty good," Kris said.

Frank was rapidly learning that there were points in all his talks with these two where it was best to just not ask the question.

Evidently Joe still hadn't made that connection. "Wasabi ice cream?"

"You'll find out," Joshua said, grinning.


	31. Double Vision

_**A/N: Thanks to Wendylouwho10, DuffyBarkley, Xenithia, & Caranath for the reviews!**_

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The Castro was fascinating.

The fog had finally cleared, and the day turned sunny, though still chilly. Joshua insisted on taking the Muni ("Best way to get to know the city"); they exited at the broad five-way intersection of Castro and Market Streets, lined with stocky palm trees and antique lampposts with fluttering rainbow-striped flags. Weary inside and out despite the nap and shower (the third one today), Joe still couldn't stop looking around — two-story stucco'd buildings with their second floor windows jutting out in angular bays and ceramic-red roof tiles, interspersed with narrow Victorian row-houses, all of which looked as if a rainbow had exploded in the middle of the street. The people were…well…normal — Joe caught himself. What had he been expecting, horns?

And the _smells: _sausage pizza, baking bread, roasting coffee beans, rotisserie chicken, curry — and they hadn't even gone a quarter of a block. As they neared the Castro Cinema, an immense art-deco building with a marquee announcing a double bill of _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ and _La Cage Aux Folles, _Frank stopped.

"The Birdcage," Frank translated. "They do art-film here?"

Joshua paused. "Tell me you haven't seen Rocky Horror. Oh, _please_ tell me."

"We've been warned," Joe said. "Nice try."

Grinning, Joshua shook his head. "Damn, lost another shot. _La Cage Aux Folles _isn't art film, handsome, but you could take your Aunt Gertrude to it and she wouldn't think it any worse than a Bob Hope show. Cross-my-heart," he added, when both Frank and Joe just gave him _looks_.

"Uh-huh," Frank said, but when Joshua turned, Frank nudged Joe and nodded at another building right next to the cinema: staid tan stucco with a brown awning, both awning and the dark windows outlined with white Christmas-lights, and the awning stenciled with white script, "Lido's".

Where the Cabal would be meeting. Joe met Frank's gaze with a slight nod.

But Joe still kept stopping, staring: the _sky. _None of the buildings were over two stories; even the trees were small, and the sky seemed huge in comparison: an over-arching, brilliant blue that went on and on. Joe couldn't take his eyes from it, caught in that wide open blue, as if all he needed to do was reach up and touch…

"Wow," Frank said, stopping again. "That is…pink."

A Goodwill store, painted in eye-watering, migraine-inducing shades of neon-pink: triangles, angles, lines, intersecting geometric shapes. Joe stared; he would've sworn paint in that hue was impossible.

He glanced at Joshua. "Let me guess. That's actually camouflage here."

Joshua grinned down at his shirt emblazoned with an upside-down pink triangle. "There's camo, and there's camo, _chè. _ This way."

"How much trouble would we get in by sending Dad one of those as a souvenir?" Frank murmured, nodding at another store-front window hung with shirts covered in rainbows and triangles.

"Probably tons. Let's do it." Joe glanced back at the shirts. "Who's Robert Hillsborough?"

"Who _was_," Joshua growled. His strides lengthened.

Frank gave Joe a quick look. "Josh…did we say something wrong?"

Joshua nodded at a rich-brown building just ahead, covered with a black awning with elegant gold Japanese lettering. "Let's get inside before I answer that, because I _will_ get loud, and I _will _get pissed off, and we'll end up surrounded by folks yelling along with me."

But Joe's gaze had been caught by a passing woman: a normal, chunky middle-aged woman, permed hair, red polyester business dress…well, normal except for the glittery, silver-sequined high heels —

— Adam's apple —

"Something wrong?" The woman halted, her voice edged, obviously waiting for Joe to explain. The timbre of her voice was all wrong, too deep, too husky.

Flustered, confused, Joe grabbed at the first excuse that popped to mind. "Uh…sorry. You look like my mother. She — uh — well, she's dead — and I — it surprised — I mean — I…uh…sorry." His voice cracked; Joe swallowed, tried again. "I didn't mean to stare."

Well, that took the prize for lamest recovery of the year.

Behind the woman, Frank had glanced her over — too dark-haired, too plump, too…well…_everything_ to be Mom — then stared at Joe as if he'd lost his mind. Just behind Frank, Joshua had his hand in front of his mouth, hiding a grin.

"Why, bless your heart, sweetie," the woman — man — _person_ said.

"Hey Bernie," Joshua said.

"Bernice," the woman said automatically. "Oh, _Joshua!_ How _are_ you? We haven't seen you at the Outlook in _ages!"_

"Bernie?" Frank murmured to Joe, as Bernie and Joshua fell into chatting.

If his face was as red as it felt… "She's just one of the guys," Joe managed.

Bernie turned back, patted Joe's shoulder. "You did good, sweetie. Keep it up." Then he — she — eyed Frank up and down, winked. "Let me know when you're ready to broaden your horizons, honey."

"C'mon, I'm starved," Joshua said, as Bernie continued down the street. Joe kept watching him — her; how had the guy mastered walking in high heels? Why would any guy _want_ to?

Burn The Tail was low-key, elegant and casual at the same time, its interior a calming sweep of curved wood and burnished metal, with one wall taken up by an enormous aquarium filled with goldfish and exotic coral. Joshua had a quiet word with the host, and they were given a booth in the back, out of earshot of the other diners. Joe snagged the corner so he could study the rest of the restaurant, Frank right beside him.

"Robert Hillsborough," Joshua said without preamble, as he slid into the booth opposite them. "Just a normal, everyday guy. One of the city gardeners, in fact. And a few months ago," Joshua stopped, got visible control, "…he was walking home with his friend when a group of total bastards attacked him and killed him."

"He was mugged, you mean," Frank said.

Joshua stared over Frank's head for a moment, then he leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Look, you guys are good guys. White, Christian, middle-class, small-town-New-England, real conservative, right?"

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Joe really didn't want to get on the receiving end of one of Joshua's rants again. "I don't know about conservative," Joe said slowly. "Depends what you mean by it."

Joshua smiled thinly. "Fair enough. But, tell me, darlin's_. _ If me and Godzilla were to walk arm-in-arm down Main Street, Bayport, what would happen?"

Joe shifted. He knew what Aunt Gertrude would say; she'd been pretty vocal about the Anita Bryant thing, and he and Frank had kept quiet, not wanting more arguments on top of what was happening already.

"Well, Hillsborough was killed for doing just that," Joshua said, watching them. "Stabbed fifteen times, right over in Mission, out in the open. His friend got away, Robert didn't. Oh, and his killers were chanting 'faggot' the whole time."

The brothers exchanged looks again. "That's…" Frank's voice trailed off; he shook his head. "If you're asking if that would happen in Bayport…I don't know, Josh. I want to say no. I wish I could say no." Frank toyed with his water glass. "We were raised…well, you're right, pretty conservative. Maybe gay's wrong, I don't know, but no one deserves that."

"No one called the cops?" Joe said.

"The cops didn't respond until it was too late," Joshua said. "As usual. You're honest. I appreciate that, I really do. Most folks would make some big liberal declaration about how such things never happen here or how they'd jump in to stop it."

"Not against someone with a knife," Frank said.

"If they were unarmed, definitely," Joe added. "We'd call the cops, at least."

Frank nodded. "That's not a big liberal declaration, Josh. That's fact — it's not like we could tell who's gay or not."

Joshua studied them both for a long moment. "You know what? I believe you. But let's take it further, _chè_. You go out with a girl, you really hit it off, she's in the mood. You take her back to your place, all nice and private, and just as things get going…the cops bust in and haul you off to jail for indecency, and you both have to register as sex offenders. Oh, and you end up evicted, too."

"But that's illegal," Joe said. "The cops have to have a warrant —"

"Would you like to see Godz's record?"

That brought Joe up short. He looked away.

"_Chè_, I'm not getting on your case," Joshua said. "And to be fair, the city's trying to get that particular idiocy repealed. But there's too many politicos on the side of the killers. Think about that a moment. People who think the killers were _right_, just because of who Robbie slept with. And that's just what the D.A. focused on." Joshua fixed Frank with a _look_. "You call it a mugging? It's a firebrand_._"

"Understood," Frank said quietly.

"And it's not over." Joshua toyed with his chopsticks. "Oh, yeah, it gets worse. There's a piece of crap going through the state house now, trying to make it illegal for anyone to even support civil rights for someone like me. Think about _that_ for a minute — you say that a US citizen should get his guaranteed constitutional rights no matter who he slept with, they could toss _you_ in jail. No, _chè. _Not just a mugging. Not by a long shot. Everyone's angry, and that anger's been bubbling under for a good long while. It won't take much to set it off."

Silence. There just wasn't anything to say.

Now Joshua sighed, leaned back in the booth. "Okay. I got through that without exploding. I didn't bring you two out here to rant about politics."

"It's okay, Josh," Frank said. "We're going to be living out here for a while, so it's our home, too."

Joshua eyed them for a long, uncomfortable moment. "You both keep surprising me. Keep doing it." Then suddenly he grinned. "Let me know if you take Bernie up on her date, handsome."

"Don't push it," Frank said.

The food was like nothing Joe had ever had — Bayport had a Chinese restaurant, and Boston had plenty of great seafood houses, but this…even given the sushi that Godzilla had done last night, Joe wasn't prepared for the difference. Tempura, seaweed salad, _gyoza_ — more instant addictions to add to the list, especially the tempura lotus root.

And the rest…

Joe wasn't about to ask for translations. Probably best to not know what he was actually eating. Though one look at Frank's plate — Joshua had been right. Something as cute as baby octopus just did not deserve to be a food item; Frank had carefully moved it to the side and covered it with the lid to the soup bowl.

All through dinner, Joshua asked them about their gear: what they'd brought, what they still needed, what they wanted, and to Joe's surprise, he was taking notes. On finding out that they wanted to duplicate their home crime lab — that they even _had_ one back home — Joshua turned decidedly enthusiastic.

"I'll cover it in our operating budget," Joshua said. "No arguments, darlin's. Start dreaming, here. What do you want in your lab?"

"Why?" Frank said. "We just got here. I'm not even sure I want to be a Blade. Eli tossed Joe out. Why waste money on us?"

"You have an odd notion of waste, _chè._" Joshua leaned forward. "Right now, we don't have anyone with your skills in the Blades. We have to rely on people like Samuel and the good graces of the local PDs. Sam's a good guy, but he has to be real careful what he gives us. Blade or not, I can use both of you."

"But we're not real detectives," Joe said. "We don't have any kind of license. All we know is what Dad's taught us."

"Says the guy who has a dozen books on fingerprints at home," Frank said. "But he's right, Josh. We've helped Dad and we've solved things on our own, but we're not legally anything."

"Skills are skills. Brains are brains. I don't see a problem." Joshua sat back. "Y'know, I've been sitting here telling you what I want — I forgot the important part. What do you want?"

Joe looked away. After everything of the past couple days, too many of Dad's recent lectures and arguments were now rising to choke him.

…_you won't even pass the physical, you're not able to do it, you have to accept that… _

"Well?" Joshua said.

"The Blades —" Frank started, but Joshua cut him off.

"Forget the Blades. Forget the Association. What do _you_ want? I don't want to hear _if-onlies_ or _yeah-buts_ or _it's-not-possibles._ Right here, right now, no limits."

Joe couldn't look at Joshua or even his brother. There were limits, no matter what Joshua said.

"_Chè," _Joshua slapped the table in front of Joe, startling him, "forget the crutch, too. _What do you want?"_

The words spilled out before Joe could stop them. "To be a detective, like Dad."

"We want —" Frank hesitated, "— we wanted to open up our own agency."

"That's past tense," Joshua said gently. "You don't want that anymore?"

"There's a work requirement for a P.I. license," Joe said. "On top of school. Time with either a police department or the military."

"Or with a licensed agency," Frank added. "Dad never put us on payroll. What we did with him doesn't count."

"And a huge bond that has to be paid." Joe was finding it hard to speak. "Dad…Dad told us — before. Before New Orleans. That once we got through school, we could come in under his license."

"Not now," Frank said bitterly. "Not ever, according to him."

Silence again.

"It's hard to have a dream yanked away like that," Joshua said, still quiet. "But give your dad some sympathy, darlin's. He does love you. He truly cares. I saw that in New Orleans. He came too close to losing you, Joe, and now he's running damage control. He's not thinking clear. He'll come around."

Joe said nothing. Not likely, not possible, not ever.

"You haven't heard him," Frank said.

"So set _him_ aside, too," Joshua said. "But I'm still not understanding. From the way you're talking, you still want to open your own agency. What's stopping you?"

"The work requirement." Joe bowed his head. "Me. PD's have a physical — I can't do the military —"

"No licensed agency will take us," Frank said. "Not if Dad has anything to say about it. He's got connections."

Understatement of the century. Dad had taken them to a detectives' convention last year, and Joe had been shocked to find that _everyone_ knew and listened to Dad…and that was just among private investigators. Add in the police departments, the government, the military, and it was easy to get paranoid.

"You heard Sam, right, _chè?"_ Joshua said to Joe. "He didn't seem to think it was an issue. Believe me, Downs has no pull with SFPD."

…_you don't need to walk to work in a crime lab…_

"As for licensed agencies," Joshua was grinning again, "some very wise predecessor of mine got us a license, back before California got hard-ass with its guidelines, and we've been careful to keep it current. We've got both that and licensing as a bodyguard-security agency — that part's recent, because of Karma. I freely admit, I'm dangling a huge carrot in front of you."

Joe looked at his brother. Frank's expression matched what was going on in Joe's heart at that moment. "Not me," Joe said.

"Yes, you," Joshua said. "You think me and Mar won't fight Council about it? Things change, _chè._ Maybe not tomorrow or next week or next month…but they change."

Joe looked away.

"The bond? Save up. You should put some hard work into your dream, otherwise it's meaningless." Joshua raised an eyebrow. "You _do_ know that the Blades are paid?"

"Mar told us," Joe said, with a quick glance at Frank.

"But you're already giving us college," Frank said, suspicion edging his voice. "Room and board. Dad always said that was enough for a couple unlicensed teens."

"We're not your dad, _chè. _I'll be blunt. College? Rehab for Joe's injuries. Some of it's blood money, yes. You two were on my team. You took major fire. Me and Mar didn't have to argue that with the higher-ups — they agreed pretty quick."

Higher-ups? Joe exchanged another look with Frank.

"The Blades were _my_ decision," Joshua said. "New Orleans was your interview. It's a job like any other, I'm the boss, and I chose to hire you. If I have to ram it into Council's collective faces for a few months until they finally get the point, I will. Now…" Joshua leaned back, his expression that of a cat with a bowl of cream and a feather dangling from its mouth, "let me dream a bit here. You get through school, you get your experience one way or another, you open your own agency. You know what I get in return?"

"A couple good-looking guys forever grateful and in your debt?" Frank said.

"Try 'enslaved for life'," Joe said.

Joshua blinked, then laughed. "I didn't even _think_ of that. Thanks for the reminder. But…no. What I get is a pair of independent detectives who don't have to follow all the regulations that Sam does, and who I don't have to pussy-foot around in explaining situations…"

"You're drooling," Joe said.

"…and who are extremely, embarrassingly observant on top of that," Joshua said, grinning.

Higher-ups. Joshua was implying that there were situations that they didn't want police or other government involvement in. Then again, Joe never wanted to try explaining Thatcher to the FBI, no matter what Hammond implied.

"So you're looking for a pair of rogue P.I.'S, that's what you mean," Frank said bluntly.

"Two P.I.'s who know the right thing to do and who aren't afraid to do it," Joshua countered. "Who aren't afraid to speak the truth or tell me when to shove it."

That brought them both up short. "I asked this before," Frank said slowly. "What are the Blades about? Why do you need people like us?"

"You tell me," Joshua said. "No, seriously, handsome. I want to hear what you've pieced together. I'll fill in any gaps."

"New Orleans," Frank said immediately. "You try to stop stuff like that. You police the Gifted so they don't become like Thatcher."

"Mar said something about the feds," Joe said, thinking. "About the CIA wanting the Gifts under their control."

There was nothing in Joshua's face to latch onto, good or bad, right or wrong. "Go on."

"You fight the government," Frank said. "You try to keep the Gifted away from them."

"You realize you're talking to a 'Nam vet," Joshua said. "I'd still be in the Army if they hadn't had a collective attack of stupidity. And you know Mar's son, Charlie. He's a fighter pilot, and he's a 'path like his Mama."

Mar had a son in the Air Force, a couple years older than Joshua; Charlie had visited Mar a few times in Bayport on leave. Charlie had been tickled at having a little sister and a pair of unofficial "kid brothers" by extension. Joe had idolized the man — Charlie was a tall weathered mountain who looked every inch an Indian warrior, even though he'd been in uniform, not feathers and paint.

"But everything you've said," Joshua went on, "boils down to two things. We protect the Gifted, and we protect others _from_ the Gifted."

"And the feds?" Frank said.

"_Chè, _if someone wants to sign on with them, that's cool. It's the ones that aren't given a choice: that's what we try to stop."

"Like Vão and Rafe," Joe said. Kris had told them some of that story when he'd been in the hospital.

Joshua nodded. "And, too…we try to fix problems. The Sidhe realms — the Fae, the otherworld, ghosts and haints and things that go bump in the night — are active and _dangerous._" Joshua sighed. "Vão and Rafe can vouch for that, too."

"Fred," Joe murmured to Frank, and was rewarded with Frank's eye-roll. But Joe couldn't stop thinking. Occult trouble-shooters. Monsters and beasties and things that went bump…

Like vampires.

A little girl had asked Joe if he'd been hurt by vampires 'too', and some oddball group was holding a meeting for vampires and witches Sunday night. A group that Kris and Joshua had just laughed about.

That would be perfect cover. When people laughed at you, they thought you were harmless. Just as Frank and Joe had initially thought Thatcher was harmless. That was how Joe had been caught, after all, thinking that Thatcher was just an old man.

And a so-called vampire was trying to protect that little girl and her brother from a possible cult…

"Kris and her stories," Frank said. "She was always telling us all kinds of spooky tales."

"She's our folklore and religion expert," Joshua said. "At least, that's what she's working towards. Some of us specialize, others just work off gut instinct. Like yours truly. There's what we laughingly call 'on-the-job training', but there's no real way to train for this. You pick up as you go. We train your Gift. Drake handles self-defense and survival. We'll teach you as much about the Gifts as we know. Carol and Sam go over procedures, but it's mostly what _not_ to do so we don't mess up a crime scene."

"Magic forensics," Joe said, grinning himself. "Psychic crime scene investigation, at your service."

"I'd love to see you dusting for _those_ fingerprints," Frank said.

Joe's grin faded. Frank had said he had 'plans' tonight, and somehow, Joe didn't think it was to riffle through Kris's library. Not when Frank had turned down a gorgeous woman like Jamie to do it…

…and had given up too easily with Joe over it…

Joshua was giving them both a thoughtful stare.

"That's not a bad idea, _chè," _Joshua said. "Strike that — it's a _great_ idea. It's been attempted before, but most of us just don't have the mindset to keep at it." Another long, studying gaze. "I think you two do."


	32. No One Is Innocent

**_A/N: Thanks to Caranath, ChrisDaughterOfApollo & Dixie for the reviews! Camp NaNoWriMo starts today, & I'm busily working on the next tale...so I'm posting today's chapter a bit early. Enjoy!  
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Rafe's words had hurt. Kris had willed them not to.

Both Rafe and Vão had wanted her to go out, to forget her duties, to let go, let be, let it happen. She couldn't. She couldn't slough it off on someone else. There wasn't anyone else, and that, they never understood.

Thank gods, Joshua had dragged Frank and Joe off for dinner. She did not want her big brothers dragged in on another situation, not while they were still so new, but they were both determined to jump in with both feet into the deepest part of the pool, as usual. She'd tried to simply blow off the Cabal, to play it off as the joke they usually were…but Frank pointing out the vampires part had her cursing silently.

There was no such thing as coincidence.

What she hadn't told him: the vampire part was new. The Cabal always had a person or two who'd claimed to be such in the past, but they'd been lumped in with the _otherkin_ nonsense, not given special attention. That they were openly advertising it was worrying. Add in the People's Gate and what Downs had found…

There was no such thing as coincidence, _ever._ Please, gods, let Frank and Joe have an attack of sense and not decide to investigate.

Yeah, right.

She grabbed a fast sandwich — Mar had stocked too much bologna, which Kris hated, but she found a bag of chipped ham buried in the bottom fridge drawer — and chewed absently, barely tasting the wheat and swiss while she skimmed through her books, looking for anything about modern vampire cults. Or, at least, people who thought they were vampires. She wasn't about to accost Sam at the SFPD to ask about the so-called cult he'd told Ruth about; the situation wouldn't count as an emergency to the police yet, not when it was only street-trash runaways.

Even if a couple kids were possibly involved by such things, she only had hearsay.

_Beware the one alone, the one who does not speak._

Finally, Kris shoved the books back, sighed. Nothing. A few tantalizing references in _Guide to Modern Cults, _nothing in _The Watchman —_ which usually hit up the paths and groups that no one else considered — nothing in _Drawing Down The Moon. _She even checked out _SF Weekly_ and _The Gate_ — the weekly what's-going-on guides — on the thought that maybe the Cabal might have put out small information articles, as some of the other open Pagan groups did. Nothing.

Nothing for it but to go back to Wings, see what she could get out of Edward, and then hit up the Cabal's meet-up on Sunday herself.

Kris scrawled a message for Mar, left it magnetted to the fridge, then got her .45 out of the secure lockbox in her room, strapped the holster on and invoked the small set-spell that made the gun hard to spot. Hopefully it was overkill and paranoia, but she wasn't taking chances.

An hour later found her at Wings. Sandra and Ruth were at the front desk, going over the day's logs; Sandra eyed her.

"Three days in a row?"

"Level, kiddo," Ruth said. "What's going on?"

"As soon as I figure it out, I'll tell you," Kris said. "Who else is in?"

"You're it," Ruth said. "Harold'll be on night duty. He told me he needed a break, after Milpitas. Cari had to cancel — some issue with her folks."

"Father Manny's here," Sandra said. "He brought his church ladies' group with him."

Kris and Ruth just looked at each other. Sandra wasn't one of the Center folk and didn't know about the Association, other than folks from "that commune on Yerba Buena" volunteered at Wings. "Thanks, Sandra," Kris said, and headed towards the dayroom.

Ruth walked with her, pulled her short just before Kris went through the door. "Edward's upstairs in the temps," Ruth said quietly. "Hawk, it was odd. Weird-odd, and I mean our kind of weird. He _asked_ to stay, before I could say anything."

"Rita and Eme?"

Ruth shook her head.

"Okay." Kris glanced to make sure Sandra wasn't listening in. "Let me check the other kids, and I'll meet you in the office. I'll explain, I swear, Ruth."

"You'd better." There wasn't any humor in Ruth's voice.

Kris sighed, went into the dayroom.

It was easy to pick out the church folks from the other volunteers. They were the ones who tried to act like buddies or mothers, with a forced caring front that always had a condescending _you-poor-child_ attached. Some of the older teens played that for all it was worth, to get cash and perks from the visitors who were just "doing their good Christian deed". Rico, especially, had mastered it, his burn scars giving him a great sob-story; he grinned over at Kris when he spotted her, flashing a five-dollar bill that the matronly, poufy-permed white woman standing nearby had evidently given him.

Kris flashed him back a covert thumbs-up.

"Oh, you poor _dear." _ The same woman spotted Kris and came over, oozing concern so hard that Kris expected her to pull out a blanket and warm milk. "Come right over here and make yourself comfortable."

Behind the woman, Rico cracked up. Kris jerked away; why did they always want to _touch?_ "I'm a volunteer, ma'am."

"Dear, it's okay, you're safe here —"

"Hey, Kris." Father Manuel was in the doorway leading back to the cafeteria. "Beatrice, she really is a volunteer. Leave her alone."

"Unless you've got Mounds Bars," Kris said. "Then I'm definitely a runaway. Hey, guys? Have any of you seen Rita or Emelio today?"

That got a round of head-shakes from the kids, including Rico; the church people only looked confused. But Father Manuel beckoned her back to the hallway. "I'm waiting for you to wise up like Rico. You'd clean up."

"Wait 'til Joe figures it out," Kris said.

Father Manuel laughed. "I'll bring the whole ladies group next time he's here. Be sure to tell him to play up hungry-and-pathetic." Quieter, "I haven't seen those two all day. Their mama wasn't at morning services, either."

Oh gods. Kris locked down her reaction. It wouldn't do to have the priest see her freak. Little Rita and big brother Emelio came in every day, no exceptions. They'd learned the hard way to stay out of their hooker-mom's way when she was working, ever since one of her johns had tossed Rita down the stairs.

Of course, said john had wound up in the hospital himself once certain of the Blades had found out…and that was _after_ what their mother had done to him.

Despite being a hooker, their mother was a dedicated Catholic — well, dedicated in terms of going to Mass several times a week, anyway, according to Emelio. And this was May, the month dedicated to the Virgin Mary. That brought the Hispanic folks out in droves, especially the street gangs, who were superstitiously religious, thinking it gave them protection. For their mother to not show up at Mass…

"I know where they are." A light tenor, bored, young.

Not recognizing the voice, Kris turned. Edward. He'd _never_ spoken to her. He always stayed in a corner, withdrawn, silent, and drawing. But now he stood in the hallway, several feet away, and the teen's gaze flickered from Kris to the priest and back.

"So where are they?" Kris said, when it became obvious that Edward wasn't going to say anything until she did.

Again that flicker. "You. Not him."

Kris hesitated. But even if Edward was having delusions of being a vampire like he'd claimed to Frank, he was still a starved junkie. She could probably fend off an attack. "Manny, do you mind?"

"Not at all. Let me know when you're ready for the basketball rematch." He patted Edward on the shoulder as he passed…

…then Father Manuel stopped.

"Okay, Edward," Kris said. "Cafeteria okay? I'm starved."

"Hey Kris," Father Manuel broke in, "I almost forgot. What you asked for, last time." Over Edward's head, he tossed her something, which she caught one-handed.

A large, simple silver cross engraved with a _chi ro_ on a silver chain. His priest's necklace.

Silver crosses — good against vampires, according to movie lore. Folklore was iffy on that point, but this was a priest's cross, blessed and strengthened in holy service…

But Father Manuel didn't know about the Association, either, nor about the Blades, nor about whatever was going on. Kris met his gaze as she tucked it into her jacket. She and the good Father were going to have a long talk, after this was over.

"We'll talk rematch after I talk with Rita and Eme." Kris waited until Father Manuel went back to the dayroom. Casual, unconcerned. On the surface, anyway: she could see the aura around Edward, sick green and smoke-black.

Not. Good.

"Okay, I'll play," Kris said. "Where are they, Edward?"

He moved closer, and Kris clamped down her reaction. His eyes were totally black, all-pupil: one of the signs of possession.

Then he smiled.

How had Frank and Joe had managed to deal with this kid without freaking? Okay. Play it off. Kris rolled her eyes. "Look, kiddo, I don't have time for games." Bored, casual. She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, curled her hand around the silver cross. "You want to be an over-dramatic hormonal teenager, go ahead. Have fun." Kris pushed away from the wall. "I'll be in the dayroom keeping the church ladies safe from Rico."

"Are you truly that unintelligent, little mouse?" Edward said softly, and Kris froze. Just a hint of a schooled British accent.

Oh dear gods. She had not heard that.

Something prodded at her shields. Kris didn't move, only stood there, arms crossed, mind racing. Think, _think. _It couldn't be Thatcher. What would Thatcher be doing in a runaway junkie's body? Why would the monster limit himself like that?

Well, whatever was possessing this kid was stuck with Edward's limitations, starved junkie, teen hooker, and all, assuming it was real and not just Edward using a Monty Python accent to freak folks out. It was a B-movie thing, after all: British accent = bad guy.

Right. Not with those eyes.

"Smarter than you, evidently," Kris said, still casual, still bored. It wasn't easy. "You're on my home territory, and I've forgotten more about magic than whatever you've scrounged out of comic books. Now, if you really think your junkie ass can stand up to me, kiddo, have at."

Silence.

Time to twist the knife. "By the way, that accent's horrible. You really need to stop watching Mary Poppins."

That got only a slow, slow smile.

"Y'know, Edward —" Never, _ever_, address the possessing entity, act as if it's nothing, talk only to the body's owner, "— you're young, you make mistakes. We all do. There's a priest out there who can exorcise stuff to vapor, and what his religion doesn't cover, mine does."

"I'm not so easily gone." Still the hint of British accent. "I will enjoy teaching you that lesson, if I must."

"Spare me, baby boy." Keep taunting it, get it angry. Angry things made mistakes. She gripped Edward's shoulders with both hands — Father Manuel's cross in her right — and glared into Edward's face, pressing the silver against his shoulder. "Now, _Edward,_ are you _choosing_ to let it stay? Because if you are, I won't bother trying to save you. But I think you're worth saving."

"Let what stay?" The accent vanished. Edward twisted, trying to get free of her grip. "Let me _go. _You're hurting me. You're _crazy._"

She let go immediately. "Fine. I'm bored with this. Think about it, Edward. You get tired of playing whore to its john, let me know." Kris turned to go, her fist clenched around Father Manuel's cross.

"You wanted to know where Rita and Eme are," Edward said, behind her. "I can take you right to them."

Kris stared. Still the all-black eyes; she didn't believe the innocent act at all. "Wow. You really are that stupid. Like I said, Edward. Let me know when you're ready."

She left him standing there in the back hallway and made it out to the dayroom — fending off two more church ladies who hadn't paid attention the first time. Kris stood a moment, looking over the kids; Father Manuel was watching her, and she went over to him, handed him his cross.

"Keep an eye on things," Kris said quietly. "I'll be back."

"We need to talk when you do," he said, just as quietly.

Kris nodded, then went upstairs to Ruth's office. Bent over paperwork, Ruth blinked up, then her gaze settled.

"Spill it," Ruth said.

"People's Gate," Kris said. "Harold found evidence that they might have been one of those vampire cults, but he's not sure — FBI and CIA were all over the place today and Sam told us they're keeping everyone out."

"Oh dear God," Ruth said.

"Yeah," Kris said. "The good news, we don't think everyone died."

"You didn't make that sound like good news."

"Not if they're trying to recruit kids to have a second go."

Ruth wasn't a fool. "Rita and Emelio."

How much to tell her? Kris wasn't even sure what to believe, or what was a smokescreen. "Frank and Joe got some word that Rita and Eme might be Gifted, so yeah." Kris hesitated. "Keep an eye on Edward. Don't let any of the other kids leave with him. Delay him if he tries to leave, but don't force the issue. Keep your shields up. I'm going to call Josh and Harold and get one of them down here."

Ruth absorbed this without any change of expression, then nodded. "Noted." She pushed up from her chair, left the room.

For a moment, Kris collapsed against the desk, leaning on her arms, let the trembling overtake her. Worst case scenario: if it was Thatcher. No matter what he'd been in life, he was now an ordinary ghost. That was all. Ghosts had little power in the real world; the living world needed the living body to accomplish anything in it. That meant Thatcher was limited to Edward's abilities, problems, and faults…if it was him.

Limited. Right. A blood-mage who knew enough to prolong his own life by years, who had pulled off a visible ritual circle that had taken out half a block when it went down, that could drain other spirits out even after death…

Oh gods. If Thatcher could drain those others out, was Edward even still "alive", then?

Stop. _Stop._ Freak out later.

Problem, though. How did Thatcher get here? Why Edward? What Joshua had said to Vão was right: there was a couple thousand miles plus tons of water, boundaries, mountains and whatnot between here and New Orleans — the trail should've been broken beyond any hope of recovery. Unless…

Unless they'd missed something. Rafe had been in the center of that summoning circle; Vão had been getting prepared for some ceremony, and Joe and Nathaniel had been used for blood magic, before Frank had shot Thatcher and Claire down. Alma, Joshua, and Kris had taken care to wipe all residue from them, with blessing, consecration and exorcism in as many traditions as they'd been able to pull in from NOLA Center.

But Thatcher had been using things none of them had ever seen.

Breathe, _breathe._

Slowly, deeply, Kris breathed in and out until she was sure of her voice, before she picked up the phone. She wasn't about to call Frank and Joe; she didn't want them involved in this. Not with both still so new, and Joe still so vulnerable.

Especially if Thatcher was involved.

Three calls: two to Joshua — one a short, succinct message left with Godzilla at their house for Joshua to get to Wings immediately, the second a slightly longer message on the answering machine at the office in the Center.

And the third…

"Harold Downs." Short, curt.

"There's a situation at Wings," Kris said. "I need you down here."

Silence.

"What me and Josh found at NOLA," Kris went on, fighting to keep her voice even; Downs would know what that meant. It'd been a private meeting for the Blades, shortly after they'd gotten back. "It's taken over one of the kids. And two others are missing, Rita and Emelio. It might be hooked in with what you found at People's Gate."

"Just me?" Edged.

"I've left messages for Josh." Then Kris happened to look up, out the window that overlooked the street. Edward stood on the street corner opposite.

He looked right up at her, smiled…then turned and walked off down Carroll Street.

"Hawk?"

"Edward — the kid that's taken over — he just left. Tell Josh he went down Carroll, Bayside."

"Girl, you know better," Downs snapped. "Wait for backup."

"I know it's a trap. And he knows I know. But he claimed he knows where Rita and Eme are — we think they're Gifted, and Frank and Joe got a line on them being involved with the Gate, too." Kris heard Downs's breath hiss in. "Exactly. I'm just going to follow. I'm not going to confront. Get down here." With that, she hung up.

Okay. Don't run after the kid. That was what he expected, for her to panic and run after him. Edward wanted her to follow, that was obvious, so that meant he'd be watching for her and going slow.

Which meant he'd be paying attention behind him, not in front.

Kris went back downstairs, intercepted Ruth and pulled her aside. "I'm heading after Edward. He's going down Carroll. Downs is on his way, and I left messages for Josh."

Ruth absorbed that. "Need the gun?"

They kept two .45s in a padlocked strongbox upstairs in the office, secured to the floor in the closet; only Ruth had keys. "I'm good. If I'm not back in thirty minutes, start worrying."

With that, Kris headed through the cafeteria kitchen and out the back supply door, taking a moment to set her misdirection in place — what she called the "mouse-trick", a small field of her mage-Gift and Empathy that encouraged people to not pay attention to her. She didn't head directly for Carroll Street; she stuck behind the buildings and went over the fence to the warehouse lot bordering Wings' backyard. She walked fast, but with purpose, as if she belonged, and at Jennings Street, walked up to the corner and casually looked both ways — just another pedestrian.

Edward had stopped midway between Wings and Jennings Street, his gaze towards Wings, as if watching for her. Kris crossed Carroll Street and got into the shadow of a tree between a couple parked cars, and waited. After about ten minutes, Edward crossed Jennings, his hands in his pockets, shaking his head and smiling.

Easy enough to cut over to the next street and parallel his route. She half-jogged down the block, cut between two more small warehouses, and waited, saw Edward pass again.

Now, as long as Edward didn't turn towards where she was at, she'd keep shadowing like this, and at least be able to narrow down where the SOB had Rita and Eme…

A hand grabbed her shoulder in a shock of energy, sending her to her knees.

"A little mouse should not roar without her lion," said a voice, as if from a long ways away. "Be thankful you're not part of the bargain."

Darkness.


	33. Darkness on the Edge of Town

Dinner took longer than Frank wanted, but he'd long learned patience. Joe was already suspicious; if Frank gave any hint of impatience, that suspicion would go straight to certainty. Joe would never, ever, be put off if he thought Frank was in danger, and going to meet a so-called vampire alone would definitely rank red on Joe's scale.

Frank had a lot to think about, a lot he hadn't expected: Joshua giving them _carte blanche_ to investigate whatever was happening at Wings. Frank and Joe were new, Joe had been barred from the Blades — by the head of the Center, no less — and Joshua still trusted them…?

Granted, not like Joshua had much choice, because Frank was going to help those kids no matter what anyone said, but still.

Add to that Joshua offering to fund their lab — Frank understood Joshua's reasoning, but what he'd talked about was years away, at best. Joshua didn't even seem concerned whether Frank stayed in the Blades or not. It spoke of trust, trust in two near-strangers — well, okay, not strangers to Mar and Kris, but still, that trust seemed to have been placed just because of what had happened in New Orleans.

As if someone had decided that Frank and Joe were worth the effort just for themselves, not for what could be gotten out of them.

The Association had set themselves up as guardians over such things, for no recompense that Frank could see, for no apparent reason other than it needed doing. There had to be an angle, there had to be something the Association was getting out of doing all that, but Frank kept coming up blank.

_Follow the money,_ Dad said, but there wasn't any money to follow, that Frank could tell.

Fumbling in his wallet for his Muni pass, Frank saw Harry Hammond's business card.

Oh. Yeah. The other complication. Frank could imagine that phone call.

"What's so funny?" Joe said; his face lit up when Frank showed him the card. "Oh _please_…let's tell him about the vampires."

Joshua was watching a passing group of guys in Alpha Sigma fraternity shirts. "Tell who, _chè?"_

"Nothing. Just something Dad said." But the lie didn't sit well. Frank slipped the card into his pocket and followed Joshua onto the Muni.

Everything was piling up fast: Rita and Emelio, Edward, a group of loonies who may or may not be involved, a suicidal vampire cult, a possible vampire wanting to talk to Frank alone, someone who Joe claimed was the Voodoo Death God wanting to see Frank again…

Frank's head hurt.

His hand kept straying back to the business card. Downs had accused Frank and Joe of being spies for the feds. Kris had said Downs was a telepath — had he picked up on Hammond's request? And why would Hammond rely on a couple untrained amateurs?

Or had it only been meant as a friendly warning over an unknown organization? Or…not so friendly?

Frank didn't like being used as a pawn, no matter what side it was for.

Trust…

They got back to the Center, no worse for wear — not for lack of trying on Joshua's part; Joshua had egged them into agreeing to see _Rocky Horror_ at some unspecified future date, though Frank was definitely going to bring a date along just so no one got any ideas. The commons was about half-full; kids finishing up homework, the flute practicer had been joined by someone with a violin, and it looked as if Jamie had started another painting in the corner. The gray tabby on the TV had been joined by two others, a ginger and a tuxedo, all three sleeping in a furry pile with tails draped over the screen.

Frank looked, really _looked_, at the people — old, young, middle-aged, Black, Asian, Hispanic, white, laughing, arguing…and somewhere, in the back of his head, some dim understanding lit up…

"I'm going to scoot," Joshua said as they hit the stairs. "Godz has tonight off, and I don't want to waste it. Let me know how the MoMA project turns out, _chè_."

Decision made. Go for the blunt approach, see what it uncovered. "Josh…we need to talk to you and Mar," Frank said, with a glance at Joe, who was looking towards the canvas; Jamie wasn't anywhere in sight.

"We do?" Joe said.

"Hammond," Frank said.

Joshua raised an eyebrow. "That sounds serious. The war room? Or Mar's kitchen?"

"Kitchen," Joe said immediately.

"You just ate," Frank said.

"I'm going to be helping with an art project," Joe said, limping after Joshua up the stairs. "That takes a lot of energy, you know."

"I didn't realize you were that familiar with Jamie's work, _chè,"_ Joshua said. "I keep underestimating you."

Joe stopped. "I am? I mean…you do?" He glanced towards the canvas. "It does…?"

"I think someone's in way over his head tonight," Frank said.

"Interesting phrasing, there," Joshua said. "And completely, unintentionally accurate. You sure you turned her down, handsome?"

"Positive," Frank said firmly.

"Boys," Mar said, as they came into the living room, "your father called. He's rather upset that you haven't called him."

Quick check of his watch: after eleven, Bayport time. "We'll call him tomorrow," Frank said. "There's something we need to show you." He waited until they'd seated themselves around the kitchen table — Joe with yet another can of Coke and a bag of Fritos — then, with a deep breath, Frank pulled Hammond's business card out and laid it on the table. "This."

No recognition at all on Joshua's face, but Mar frowned. "Harry Hammond?"

"You know him?" Somehow Frank wasn't surprised.

"My son," Mar said dryly, "many of the Tribes have extensive FBI records. Believe me, I'm familiar with Mr. Hammond."

"Now that I think about it, that's a name that's crossed my former desk, too," Joshua said. "I suspect you're about to tell me why, _chè."_

"Before we left," Frank said, "he wanted to talk with us. He had a lot to say about this place." He and Joe took turns: how Hammond had been coming over the house more since New Orleans, what Hammond had said in the park…

Mar stopped them. "Hold, please. There's two others who need to hear this. They're on their way."

"Eli," Frank said, suppressing a shiver. _They're on their way_ — Mar had used her telepathy to talk to them, casually, everyday, no big deal. He'd never get used to that, ever.

"Yes," Mar said. "Come on in, Eli, Harold. Have a seat."

Harold…Downs? Frank turned.

"I'm really tired of being in the middle of fireworks, Mama Hawk," Joshua murmured.

But Downs stopped on seeing the brothers. "Why is it that every time we have a problem lately, you two are right in the middle of it?"

"Funny," Joe said, "I've been wondering why all of our problems here seem to have you causing them."

"That is _enough_," Eli said, then waited for the silence to settle, his gaze on Joe. "Harold was out of line. But you responding in kind served only to escalate the argument and did nothing to help resolve it. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Joe said quietly.

"We've been taught to stand up to bullies," Frank said, glaring at Downs, "not let them walk all over us."

"Eye for an eye leaves everyone blind," Eli said. "Reverend King stood up to bullies, too. You may wish to study his results, before you decide hate is the only response. Mar? You said it was important."

Mar nodded. "Frank, Joe, start from the beginning, please. Before you do, though, be aware that Harold and myself are telepaths. So's Eli, somewhat."

"We know," Frank said steadily; he'd had a feeling it'd come to this. "Tag…I mean, Kris told us."

A look went around the room. "She did," Eli said.

"We'd guessed, after Council." Frank kept his voice calm. He didn't want to get Kris in trouble, if it was some breach of rules to tell them. "After Mar said that about knowing if we were lying or not. Kris just confirmed it."

"We thought Harold there had set me up to get bounced from the Blades," Joe said. "That he'd read me to do it."

"You _dare?"_ Downs started to rise from his seat, but stopped at a look from Eli.

"Easy, darlin'." Joshua sounded amused. "They're new. They don't realize what an insult that was."

"Oh, he knows," Downs said.

Frank ignored that, forcing his own anger in check. "Mar, do you think me and Joe are lying? Bringing these guys up here?"

"No, my son," Mar said. "That was not my intention. There's another reason, one that I'll hold to myself, for the moment."

"When you asked Kris if Harold had read Joe," Eli said, "what did she say?"

What did that have to do with anything? "She said he could've, but that he wouldn't, because it was against the rules," Frank said.

"She did," Downs said, scowling.

Frank met that scowl with a stare of his own. "She told us that everything probably happened just like we saw it happen. That you were too _honorable_ to do something like that behind our backs."

"The sarcasm is yours, of course," Eli said.

Frank said nothing.

"Frank, Joe…" Mar tapped the business card. "Go on. From the beginning."

It had to do with the whole _Dad-was-a-CIA-flunky_ nonsense, Frank was certain. He and Joe got through the story calmly enough, but Frank watched both Eli and Downs. Downs was unreadable, Eli serious and concerned; they and Mar continually glanced at each other, and Frank was certain that they were talking it over…and that they weren't going to share.

"I'm disappointed," Joshua drawled, when the brothers finished. "All those taxes I pay, and the FBI doesn't even send real agents to spy on us. We should complain, Eli."

"It wasn't like that," Joe said. "I don't think he was after us to spy. Not mostly, I mean."

"It sounded that way to me," Frank said.

Joe shook his head. "I thought that, too, at first. But it was…well, when Mar was telling us about the feds. Hammond made all that noise about me working in the FBI lab, remember?"

"He was trying to recruit us back, you mean," Frank said, and Joe nodded.

"If it's not a breach of your father's confidentiality," Eli said, "how long has he known this Hammond?"

Odd question. Frank thought that over, looking at Joe.

"A few years," Joe said. "Since Circle Hills, I think."

"That's when we met him, anyway." Frank looked up at Joshua. "You said his name's crossed your desk."

Joshua sighed. "Yet another file I'll have to review. Or maybe I'll just pass it to you and you can give me a breakdown — oh, stop the evil eye, Harold, you've been grousin' at me to get an assistant."

"He'd prefer flirting with my brother rather than looking at you," Joe said to Downs.

"Bait, as unlikely as it sounds," Downs said, "I actually agree with you."

Joshua sighed. "Damn, I'm predictable."

"It changes nothing, though." Downs got to his feet, looked at Eli. "If you fall for this nonsense, you're an even bigger fool than Butterfly there. Now, if you'll excuse me, _Rockford Files_ is on."

"Thank you, Harold," Eli said calmly. He waited until Downs left, then, "What were you planning on doing, before you told us?"

Frank met Eli's gaze. "Ignoring it. I don't like being used."

"Ditto," Joe said. "We're not snitches."

"I'd say that's the wisest move," Eli said. "However, there's no harm in telling this man anything you've learned, if he seeks you out again. Just leave names out of it, please." He smiled at Frank's confusion. "The feds play so much with lies and misdirection that the truth utterly baffles them." With that, he got to his feet, with a direct look at Mar, who nodded.

"_There _you are!"

Both brothers startled, as Jamie swept into the living room. Frank smothered a grin: Joe looked stunned.

"You promised to help me take over the world, my Evil Minion," Jamie said to Joe, hands on her hips. "Or were you trying to lure me into a trap?"

"Blame Joshua," Frank said, before Joe could open his mouth. "He took us out to the Castro to seduce us to the dark side."

"I don't need your help," Joe said to him.

"You were the one who told Josh it was okay to watch," Frank said, grinning.

"Oh, _really?"_ Jamie sounded thrilled. "You got the Rebel Commander to cooperate with my plot? Really?"

"Sorry, darlin', I have to bail," Joshua said. "I found out Godzilla got tonight off."

"And I know how rare that is, poor man," Jamie sighed. "Fine, Josh, you're off the hook…tonight. But only if you provide pictures."

Frank blinked. Joe had been taking a drink of Coke and choked, spluttered. _"Pictures?"_

Mar and Eli both laughed. "My dear," Eli said to her, "please keep it to your own rooms this time, if you would. Some of the parents have been complaining."

Jamie sniffed. "As if I would reveal my plans to the rabble."

"Look, I'm in the middle of plotting the rebellion here." Joe grabbed a handful of napkins, sopped up the Coke on his shirt. "That whole secret map thing. They kinda need me to decode it, since it's tattooed on my chest."

"Wait, what?" Joshua said. "You haven't showed _me_ that_."_

Frank sighed. Little Brother really needed that shove, it seemed. "It's a fake, Joe. You're supposed to show it to her. Eli's got the real map hidden."

"A-ha!" Jamie said "So the Evil Minion is actually a cunning decoy! Backstabbing Older Brother, you are a worthy adversary. Are you sure you don't want to join in tonight?"

"He's busy," Joe said, glaring at Frank. "That girlfriend I told you about. She's been talking chainsaws."

But then Downs poked his head back in, glanced at Frank and Joe, then his gaze settled on Joshua. "Butterfly? I know you've got plans, but I need you and Mar. Now."

Sighing, Joshua got to his feet. "No rest for the wicked. Fine. But I expect you in the war room first thing on the AM, beautiful, to show me this map." He and Mar followed Downs out.

"On that note," Frank said, getting up, "I'm going to go invade Tag's book collection. Have fun showing Jamie the map, Little Brother."

That earned him a dirty look from Joe, but Frank didn't wait to hear any reply; he slipped into Kris's hallway. Best wait here until Jamie had Joe occupied, then Frank could leave the Center and head to Lido's.

"Kris?" Frank called at her doorway; the door was cracked open — odd. Didn't people lock their doors around here? "It's me. I'm checking out your books, if that's okay."

No answer.

He pushed her door open, went on in. The room had that empty feel of no one around; Picking his way through beanbags and clutter, Frank went over to the inside archway, looked into the bedroom area. No one. Kris had said she'd be checking on Edward at Wings, but she wasn't back yet?

She'd probably gotten distracted, as usual. Frank looked through Kris's bookshelves: her usual spooky stuff, fairy tales and folklore of various countries, and any number of books on weird religions and magic. His gaze was caught by a book sitting on her desk, _The Spiral Dance: a Rebirth of the Ancient Religion of the Great Goddess._ It looked new, but well-thumbed and with many sticky-notes at various places.

Kris had mentioned being involved in witchcraft…Wicca, she'd called it. Curious, Frank picked the book up_, _thumbed through, then finally settled onto Kris's couch with it. If this was something on the current occult movement, he should read it — for that matter, given what Joshua had said, he should read most of Kris's collection.

Movement out the window caught Frank's eye — a blue Gremlin was pulling out of the gravel drive, Downs at the wheel, and both Mar and Joshua in the car with him, and Downs headed down the hill towards the bridge exit.

Something about that set off a vague alarm. Joshua had said he wanted to spend tonight with Godzilla…and now he and Mar were leaving with Downs.

Not like Frank could do anything about it. He glanced at his watch — if he got to Lido's early, he could stake the place out and study Vladimir when he came in, before the man realized Frank was in the place. Frank placed the book back on Kris's desk — he'd ask to borrow it later — then scribbled a quick note to let her know where he was going and why, then magnetted a second note to Mar's fridge before heading out. Kris and Joe would probably have fits, but that would be after the fact.

Frank caught the Muni just as it pulled up at the stop at the bottom of the hill. Even at this time of the evening, it took a good forty-five minutes to get to the Castro, not including the transfer at Embarcadero, but finally, the bus pulled into the stop at the five-way intersection of Castro and Market.

Castro Street was crowded with people hanging out outside the restaurants, bars, and houses, buskers, and street vendors. Frank kept a careful watch on his surroundings; the last thing he needed was to get sucker-punched because he wasn't paying attention. Lido's was also crowded, with a $2 cover charge on top of that, but Frank paid and squeezed in, claiming an open spot along the back wall and a Coke from a passing waiter.

Lido's was small, low-key, and dimly lit. Up on its cramped stage, a duo with acoustic guitars played a soulful, but off-key lament that had the people around Frank growling in an under-current of anger. Frank studied the other patrons — both men and women, though given Bernie earlier, Frank wasn't about to make any assumptions. But then the lyrics of the guitar-duo caught his attention: the word "Robbie", followed by another growling outburst.

Uh-oh. Given how emotional Joshua had gotten… Frank tapped the shoulder of the guy next to him and nodded up at the stage. "What's going on?"

The guy — a beefy black man with a thick mustache and muscles running to fat — gave Frank a quick once-over, then shook his head. "Rumor's that it's the last day of deliberations, and they'll have the verdict Monday morning." His face darkened. "And that they're letting the sons of bitches off scot-free."

Uh-oh, tripled.

The man noticed Frank's expression. "Yeah, tell me about it, man." He nodded towards the stage. "That's the song they did at Robbie's funeral."

"It's worse," a woman nearby said. "I heard the cops are planning more raids, no matter what Harvey says."

That got more growling from those nearby.

Uneasy, Frank turned his attention back to the bar. He didn't want to be in the middle of a riot. But then he spotted Vladimir making his way around the outer edges of the crowd: wide-brimmed leather hat, leather bomber jacket, hands in his pockets, face scowling. Vladimir's gaze traveled the crowd, found Frank, and nodded.

It took Vladimir a few minutes to get through the crowded bar, then he leaned in close. "I do not like the feel of the streets tonight," he said. "Will you come with me to somewhere more quiet?"

Frank scowled. Thatcher had said much the same thing, when he'd tried to lure Frank and Joe away from Bourbon Street. But Frank had to admit, Vladimir did have a point; this place felt like major trouble waiting to happen. Nodding, Frank got up, let Vladimir lead him out of the bar.

"I'd hoped to have a quiet chat," Vladimir said, once they were back on the street and dodging San Francisco night life; he turned in the direction of the Muni stop. "But the whole of the Castro feels ready to erupt right now."

"Are you part of the Cabal?"

"No, no more. Not here."

_Not here_ — Thatcher had said that, too. Frank halted. "I'm not moving until you tell me where we're going."

"You pick odd times to be suspicious. You were the first to enter the woods, and yet you suspect foul play in the middle of the Castro on a Friday night?"

Put that way…but Frank still didn't move.

"Tell me," Vladimir said, "how far would you go to save two children?"

"The man who gave Joe those scars," Frank said evenly, "lured us off by asking for help. I almost made a bad mistake then. I'm not making it again."

"From what you just said, you didn't make it the first time. But, point taken. Pick the destination, then."

That was unexpected. _Two children…_Rita and Emelio? "Wings. The runaway shelter." If Kris was still there…or even if she wasn't, there was a phone where he could call the Center.

Vladimir swept his arm out with a small bow of _lead on_ towards the Muni stop. "If you'll allow me to suggest the route, that 24 line coming in will take us within walking distance. Third and Palou."

The condescension grated on Frank's nerves; it was too much like how Stavlin had acted. "For someone who's not a vampire, you're acting like one," Frank said, as they boarded the Muni.

Another half-smile. "You have experience, I'm sure."

This particular car was half-empty; they took a seat along the back. "The Cabal," Frank said, after a quick look around the Muni. No one sat near them, the other passengers in various stages of boredom.

Vladimir sighed. "What about them? They have an open meeting Sunday night, and you would learn more from that than what I could tell you — no, I know what you mean. Call them protective cover."

"Hide the real thing in a barrel of fakes, you mean."

"If you prefer." Vladimir didn't sound interested.

Frank lowered his voice. "Are they linked to People's Gate, then?"

Vladimir only looked at him from under the brim of his hat.

"Well?"

Quiet. "What do you think?"

_Bingo._ Frank nodded.

Vladimir glanced towards the bored passengers, lowered his voice even more. "At first, no. But about a month ago, one of those came into the Cabal. He offered the real thing, to those pretending — and those who pretend know deep in their hearts that they are fake. And they fake because they greatly desire to _be._ Do you understand?"

Frank nodded. He'd thought Kris had been doing just that for years, pretending to have magic as a means of escaping the horror of her reality. "But how are the kids mixed up in this?"

Silence.

"Their mom's a hooker, according to…to the people at Wings, so I don't think she was part of People's Gate," Frank said. There was something Vladimir wasn't saying, he was sure of it. "Folks from the ghetto usually don't get mixed up in cult stuff like that. They're too…too…"

"Grounded," Vladimir finished for him. "Yes. But…your brother bears those scars, and you can't see how two children might be involved?"

Thatcher had targeted street trash, young people who hadn't been trained in their Gift — "the innocent", according to Kris and Joshua. And Joe had claimed to see the ghosts of children and teens in that warehouse, when he'd been so close to death himself…Slowly, Frank nodded again.

It didn't take much to lure children, if one promised better than what they had, or if…and then something clicked. "There's another kid there, Edward. He claims someone's going to turn him into a vampire. And Rita and Emelio told my brother that they'd been hurt by vampires…is Edward being used to lure kids in?"

Vladimir hesitated…then nodded.

Frank sat back, sick. Using a child to lure children…street kids might not trust strange adults, but they might trust another kid.

"I asked you," Vladimir said softly, "how far you would go. I saw how they trusted your brother — I'd thought to get his help, but he's a loose cannon. Too uncontrolled, too frightened of shadows. I will not risk shattering one who is already so broken."

Well, that answered the _why us_ and _why me _that had been on the tip of Frank's tongue…and Vladimir's implied assertion of wanting to protect Joe nudged him a bit more into the _trust_ part, to Frank's mind. "I'll help," Frank said, "but when we get to Wings, I'm calling back to the Center. There's people there who'll help."

Vladimir looked as if he was thinking it over. "No," he said finally. "I know who you refer to. They'll be spotted and recognized, and the children will suffer for it." Vladimir looked away, out the window. "I prefer a precision strike."

Frank scowled. That made no sense, but he kept quiet, for the moment. "You know where the kids are, then?"

"Yes." Barely audible. "At least, where their keepers are."

So Rita and Emelio had been taken already. Frank went cold. "I said I'll help. But I'm still going to leave a message at Wings, to let folks know where I'm going."

"I understand." Vladimir met Frank's gaze. "I am willing…to bargain."


	34. Shadow Dancing

"Just what exactly do you want me to do?" Joe said.

The Evil Overlord of the Art World — otherwise known as Jamie Hollis — paused on the stairs, looked back over her shoulder, her face partially hidden by her golden flow of hair. "You were going to show me a map, remember? Since you're distracting me from plotting of the Evil Geniuses upstairs, I mean."

It had been an exhausting, emotional day, and Joe wasn't tracking too well, at that point. That hadn't been what he'd meant, but he'd play along. "If they're Evil Geniuses, doesn't that mean that they're your minions, too?"

Frank had been hiding something, Joe was sure of that, but hadn't been up to asking what; Frank would reveal it with his usual Older Brother _know-it-all_ calm when Joe least expected it. Right now, Joe couldn't do anything about the kids at Wings; Kris was down there, so that base was hopefully covered. Between the nightmare of that morning, the attacks, Vladimir…no, Joe didn't want to think about anything right now. Not with Jamie providing such a gorgeous distraction.

"Evil Geniuses always plot against their Evil Overlord." Jamie gave him another dazzling smile before she resumed her dance down the stairs. "Us Evil Overlords have issues getting good help."

"That's because your benefits are horrible," Joe said, to that gorgeous, curvy…back. Yeah. Back. "No training, no health insurance, no vacation time…"

He glanced towards Joshua's office as they passed — the war-room, as Joshua was now calling it. Joe could hear what sounded like Kris's voice on an answering machine, too muffled to make out.

"If my benefits were _good,_ I wouldn't be an _Evil_ Overlord. Now, about that map, my cunning Rebel Decoy." Jamie nodded towards the still-blank canvas in the corner of the commons. "Did you want to distract me here or back in my studio?"

Joe stopped. "You said I'd be helping with your art project."

"Well…yeah. Me, modern artist. You, modern model, right?"

That, again. So that was all she'd wanted, a chance to gawk.

Another of those dazzling smiles. "You don't really need training, but as far as health insurance goes, I've got NyQuil if you catch a cold from the drafts…Joe?"

"I'm not going to model for you," Joe said quietly.

That brought Jamie to a stop, too. "What did you think you'd be doing?"

Faced with those gorgeous green eyes…breathe. He had to breathe. "I don't know. But I'm not taking my shirt off. That doesn't change. Period."

"I didn't say…" Jamie closed her eyes, breathed out. "Look, I'm not getting this. Why are you making such a fuss about this?"

Joe raised his gaze to the ceiling, a silent plea for patience. What part of this was she refusing to get?

"Let me guess." Jamie leaned against the wall, grinning. "The map thing's just a smokescreen. You're really an alien superhero from some destroyed planet and your shirt hides your secret identity."

"Stop it," Joe rasped.

Jamie crossed her arms, waiting.

"Why are _you_ making such a big deal?" He was exhausted; the whole day had finally worn him down. Joe tried to keep his voice calm. "'No' ends it. That's what I've been taught."

"Well, you're dangling such cute bait in front of me, I can't resist."

_Bait._ Joe shoved away from the wall, limped back towards the stairs.

"Joe…" Jamie ran to catch up. "Hey, c'mon. I'm used to folks not caring about skin. I run into a cute guy who's body-shy, I'm intrigued. I'm a normal red-blooded woman. I want to see more."

She wasn't going to leave him alone on that point until either she had an explanation or he caved in, that was obvious now. Joe stopped on the third stair, hand. clenched around the rail.

"I mean, okay, you got some scars. So? You're still —"

Joe cut her off. "You know about New Orleans?"

"Uh…yyyyyeah? Big party city. Best food, best music — according to Josh, anyway…"

"I was there," Joe said bitterly. "At Mardi Gras."

"Okay…?" Then she broke off. "Oh."

"Yeah. Big 'oh'. I don't share the horror show." Joe turned away, started back up the stairs.

Small, meek. "But you're not a horror show."

He stopped.

"Joe…I'm sorry. I didn't know. Josh and Kris told us all about it —"

"They did." Joe should've expected that; it explained some things. So he wasn't just "Kris's friend from Massachusetts", he was probably "the idiot who got himself caught and crippled."

"To Council," Jamie said patiently. "The killer was all over the news out here, and we all knew those two got sent to handle it. When they got back, Council held open session, so everyone could hear the story." Quiet, "I didn't connect it. You don't look like someone who took out a serial killer."

"Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint," Joe rasped.

…wait. _'Took out'?_

Jamie sighed. "That's not what I meant. Look, I see naked people almost every class. Not 'beautiful' ones, either. Not what Hollywood calls beautiful, anyway. Artists learn to see past that. We have to. Art's about changing how you see."

"I'm not an art project."

"You should be. It'd do you good to strip down in front of a class."

That caught him. Joe felt his face get hot. Problem was, he did want to strip down…for her, anyway. But he knew what would happen when he did.

Jamie nodded, slowly. "Joe…come on back. I'd like to show you something. It's not a line, cross-my-heart. There's something you need to see."

"Trying to lure me back into your evil lair." Joe couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. "You just don't give up."

Another long sigh. "Okay. I deserved that. This was my fault, I admit it. Fine, walk away. Do that, I won't bother you again. That'll be that. Or you can get some guts up and take a chance. I'm back there —" Jamie pointed, "— last on the right. Your choice."

Jamie turned and walked off, disappearing into the maze of hallways.

Get some guts up? She was telling _him_ to get some guts? Joe stood, seething. She'd kept after him, kept playing with him…

…and he'd played right back. She was gorgeous; he was interested. He'd been enjoying her attention. He had to admit that.

His choice.

On second thought, he did have something to say. He wasn't about to leave it at that.

Joe limped through the hallways and into the last turn on the right, pulled up short; it opened up into another suite similar to Mar's, but with a more masculine feel. More messy, definitely: two piles of laundry baskets sat just inside the archway, fleece throws of several football and baseball teams lay over battered couches. Samuel, Matt, and a few others were sprawled over the armchairs and couches; the TV was blaring baseball.

"Hey, Joe, pull up. Giants versus Dodgers, and we're not sucking so bad, for once." Samuel reached into the cooler between him and Matt, shook ice off a beer, held it out.

Joe didn't take it. "I'm looking for Jamie."

Samuel waved a hand towards a door hung with an Alfonse Mucha print. "Back there. That hall's hers."

"Let us know how it turns out," Matt said, grinning. "I'll split the pizza with you."

These people made bets over everything. "You guys share with her?"

Matt shrugged. "She doesn't mind the sports, we don't mind the turpentine. She gets on a roll, we have to leave all the windows open. Bit much for most folks."

"Even Mar couldn't handle it," Samuel said. "Jamie wanted to move up there after Josh left with Godzilla, but Mar put her foot down — _oh, come on, Blue, what'd you do that for!?" _

"So much for not sucking," Matt grumbled.

Joe used the distraction to slip back into Jamie's hallway. Strong, warm smell of sandalwood, with a sharp undercurrent of turpentine and paint. Three doors — he poked his head into the open one, to his left. Organized chaos: paint-splattered worktable covered in jars, brushes, and tubes of paint, three easels, stacks of paintings and blank canvases leaning against the near wall. Desk-lamps wired to a metal rack. A battered free-standing mirror in one corner. A low-backed couch and plush chairs draped with satin, chintz, velvet; large wooden crates. Corduroy bean bags. A twin-size mattress sheeted in flannel and loaded with huge overstuffed pillows, all in warm golds and browns.

…a _mattress?_

"Do I pass?" Partially hidden by one of the easels, Jamie stood watching him.

Joe said nothing, waiting.

"Tough audience." She nodded at the canvas. "Have a look. This one's about half done, if Hawk ever gets her butt down here to let me finish it."

Kris had modeled for her? Joe couldn't believe that. He limped over, stopped.

Flight, speed, upswept wings, a blur of motion diving through a thunderstorm sky. He blinked, took another look. Definitely Kris — fully clothed — swept into a small kestrel, but somehow, that hawk, Kris, all faded into and out of the thunderstorm, as if both the kestrel and Kris weren't really there…

"It's part of a series I'm doing," Jamie said. "Capturing the shamanic soul. What folks are, under the skin. Here." She pulled a sheet off another stack of paintings nearby. "These are finished. I haven't decided what to do with them yet. I just know I have to do them."

Joe scowled. The first was Downs, reclining in a deceptively-lazy sprawl — no, a black panther, crouched and intent. The next, he didn't see the face immediately; the dragon caught his eye too strongly, entwined around the man in silvers and greens, surrounded in desert and mountains.

"You wouldn't believe what I had to do to coax Drake to sit," Jamie said. "I finally gave up and just took a bunch of Polaroids."

Drake was shirtless; Joe wondered if those were really Drake's tattoos under the shirt. Something else occurred to him. "The angel in Josh's office. That's yours?"

Jamie nodded. "The archangel Michael. That free-spirited butterfly act? Forget it. Don't _ever_ threaten someone when he's around. You do not want that focused on you. It's so strong on him, I'm surprised you don't see it."

Joe opened his mouth, shut it. He had, in New Orleans when they'd confronted Duveé. Something had hovered around Joshua: raging, righteous, upraised wings and sword, ready to strike.

"You have seen it," Jamie said.

Mutely Joe nodded.

Jamie looked at the paintings. "With some folks, it's that strong. Others, it takes coaxing. Like your brother. He pushes the prep-school vibe so hard, I can't see what's really there. I keep catching glimpses of it, but then it's like he catches himself, and it's gone."

Her Gift was seeing people as animals? It didn't seem like much. "So Frank's your next target."

Jamie cocked her head. "Wow. Jealous already. We definitely have to upgrade you from evil minion."

Back to that, again. Joe wasn't having it. "So what do you see with me?"

She shrugged, pulled the sheet back over the paintings.

"Let me guess. I have to take my shirt off for you to do that."

"Not at all," Jamie said. "You're a lot like your brother. There's something really strong, but you're chaining it down. Like you don't want to see it — you're refusing to admit it exists."

"Real nice. First I'm not normal, now I'm in denial. All because I won't take my shirt off."

"For a so-called detective, you're really bad at listening." Arms crossed. "You asked what I saw. I told you. That's all."

Joe looked away, not believing her.

"As for the shirt thing, I thought you were playing hard to get — up until you tried to hit me in front of the kids, anyway."

"You say _I'm_ bad at listening. You weren't listening, either."

"I tell you you're good-looking, I tell you I'm interested, you seem interested back — I gave you a choice, out there. You came back here. You can still walk out of here. So who's not listening, again?"

Joe didn't answer.

"Huh." She'd cocked her head again. "Maybe I'm being too direct. Maybe I really need to leave clues for you to find." She went over to the work table, ripped out a sheet of paper from a notebook, scribbled, then eyed the sheet critically. "You think _'I want to see Joe Hardy naked'_ is subtle enough? I can write it in code, if you want."

It caught him again. Having a gorgeous blonde tell him she wanted to see him naked…oh, yeah, certain parts of him were definitely cheering, at that point.

No. It was just for her art. That was all she wanted. A new subject to paint. It would only last until the horror-show freaked her out.

Her lips pursed as she studied the paper. "I'll crumple it up and toss it in the trash can. Then I'll walk out of here, and you can search the room and find it. All good and detective-ish."

"What is it with you and my shirt?"

"_You_ brought it up first. I didn't even _mention_ it until you did."

Joe thought back through the conversation. Uh…yeah. He had done that.

"Someone's not listening to himself." Her arms crossed, Jamie was grinning. "I think you really do want to show me, Joe Hardy. You just don't want to admit it."

His hands clenched around the crutch again. Fine, then. She'd asked for it. She wasn't going to leave him alone until he did; that was obvious. Better to get it over with. Cave in, show her the horror show. Then she'd see he was right, she'd leave him alone, and he…he could…

Let it end now, before it really started.

Joe yanked his sweatshirt off.

Silence.

He wouldn't look down, couldn't look at her, either. He knew every scar, the huge patches of wrinkled waxy-looking skin, the slashes. The faint pentagram marked in white-scars of razor cuts. Finally, Joe looked at her, saw the expected wide-eyed shock on her face.

"Happy now?" Joe started to pull the shirt back on.

"No, don't." Jamie stopped him. "Wait, please. Please."

She frowned at his torso, traced a hand over his left side and up his back, around the burn-scars, and breathed something he didn't catch. He shivered at the touch and when her fingertips brushed under his ribs, it shocked a gasp from him.

"Wow," Jamie breathed. "_Wow._"

"Wow?" Joe stared at her.

She pulled one of the beanbags over. "Here, sit. And don't move. Close your eyes for a bit."

"What?"

"Close your eyes. Don't worry. I won't bite. Not unless you want me to." When Joe only stared at her, Jamie sighed impatiently. "I can blindfold you instead, if you want…you know, that would be more fun. Hold on, I can dig it out..."

"_No!" _Joe caught himself, took a deep breath, lowered his voice. "No, that's okay." Bracing with his crutch, he lowered himself down onto the beanbag, closed his eyes. "Fine."

He heard her rummaging, heard water running briefly, then felt the sense of her warmth behind him. But then metal things cracked against the floor; he flinched, startled back.

"Sorry," Jamie said. "Tried to carry too much." Joe started to turn to see what had dropped, but she stopped him. "Don't move, I said. Keep your eyes closed."

"But —" Then she smeared something cold and wet across his ribcage, and he yelped.

"Hold still." Jamie thumped his side. "It wasn't _that_ cold."

He wasn't bound. The door was over there. He could leave at any time. And he was sitting here half-naked, with a gorgeous, green-eyed, insane blonde who seemed determined to drive _him_ insane.

Something dragged across the floor behind him; a plastic click and there was radiant warmth at his back. The smearing returned, her fingers quick and firm, brushing an outline of something around his torso and back. Okay, not just driving him insane: make that a gorgeous blonde woman caressing his bare chest and back. Joe could smell ink, paint, the warm closeness of her perfume, and shivered.

Yeah. Those certain parts had upped the cheering to an ecstatic victory-dance.

"You should get a space heater. These rooms are wonderful, but they're drafty in the summer. I said keep your eyes closed." Jamie tapped his nose. "I will get the blindfold, if you don't."

"If there's grapes involved, I'm out of here." Ink and paint. He was just another art project. Joe grit his teeth, stomped the ecstatic dancing down. Let her get it over with.

"Depends how nice you are to me later," Jamie said, a broad grin in her voice. "Has _everyone_ heard that story? It was just Rafe, and he was asking for it." Her fingers went away; something rattled, then soft bristles swiped across his chest, belly, and back — and Joe discovered he was ticklish. Very. Holding still wasn't easy.

Finally she was helping him to his feet. "Over here. No, keep your eyes closed until I say. Wow, bad at listening, bad at directions. That doesn't bode well for later."

That was twice now that she'd said _later_. "What 'later' are you talking about?"

"Muahahaha. You really think I'm gonna reveal my evil plan? Now hold still, right here. One moment." Another click; Joe could see bright light through his eyelids. "Okay. Go ahead, look."

He was scared to…but… Joe stood in front of the free-standing mirror, caught in open-mouthed awe.

Across the front of his chest and stomach was a blaze of color, browns, creams, golds, oranges, reds, yellows. Feathers of fire, outstretched talons, all of it incorporating the scars and burned skin: the biggest, the waxy skin of an acid burn, had become an an up-swept wing sweeping under his left arm and around — Joe twisted to see over his shoulder, and Jamie handed him a mirror. Across his back, the other wing, body, and head transformed the four deep cut-marks and other burns. A phoenix fiery and brilliant, stretching upwards in flight to a swirling sun…

"Special inks. They'll wear off after about a week, or with rubbing alcohol, if you're impatient. If you want it permanent…" Jamie paused; the impish grin was back. "…well, ask Kris about her kestrel. Double-dog dare you." Then, suddenly shy, "You really like it?"

"Yeah," Joe whispered, moved to tears. He swallowed hard to get his words out. "Jamie…I…"

"It's what I saw. I couldn't help it — the vision was so strong, I had to show you_._ You know the myth, right?"

The phoenix. Joe nodded, still staring, awestruck.

"It's you," Jamie said softly. "It really is. Fire and air. Rebirth." Then she frowned. "Y'know, I've done all that work, and used all that ink, and I'm a starving grad student. I don't work for free, Joe Hardy. You owe me."

The sudden change of topic confused him. "I…um…I didn't bring any cash."

"Good." Her smile was dazzling. She breathed against his skin, close, warm. "I'm sure we can work something out."

She couldn't mean that. She couldn't possibly…not with him…not after seeing…

She did.


	35. Hard Luck Woman

_**A/N: Yup. Posting a bit more often than I planned, since I realized that this weekend is Easter Weekend, which makes Friday "Good Friday"...and...well...you'll see.**_

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"Remind me again," Joshua growled, "of why I haven't killed Hawk before this."

Joshua had taken the time to listen to the answering machine in the war-room, Downs and Mar right there scowling — and all three had gotten their guns. Once in Downs' little Gremlin and safely out of hearing of the Hardys and anyone else, Downs had further briefed Joshua and Mar what Kris had said, with Joshua filling in what Frank and Joe had said about Vladimir and the kids.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid._ Their little mouse knew better than that. Joshua had pounded it into her head, that you never, _ever_, went after a charlie without backup, period.

Especially a charlie on the potential nuke-level of Thatcher.

None of the other Blades had been around, save Drake, who had — reluctantly — agreed to stay in Center to keep watch for Joe's tail and to run communications, if needed. Too short-handed, never enough man-power, and Joshua hadn't had the leisure to go over the various West-Coast assignments to see what and who could get re-apportioned. Stupid, quintupled, octupled, and hundred-tupled. Joshua would _make_ time, after this.

"Calm down," Mar said. "She had reason."

"She's got too much of her big brothers in her head, that's the reason, darlin'," Joshua snapped, but settled, holding his peace until Downs finally, _finally_ pulled into the parking lot behind Wings. With that, all three of them piled out, and Joshua was the first through the back kitchen doors.

Ruth met them there; she looked haggard and worn. "Kris left right after she called you. She hasn't made it back."

"Time?" Mar said.

"About forty minutes ago. She said to start worrying at thirty, but you folks had already left."

"She over-estimated," Joshua snapped, then forced himself to calm down. He didn't need to take it out on Ruth, and there were still regular volunteers back here, fixing meals for the shelter residents — volunteers who were staring with worried, curious eyes.

"She cut through the warehouse lots, if that helps. I thought I saw her cross the street at one point, but I couldn't be sure. Edward stuck to Carroll Street." Ruth lead them out of the kitchen and into the cafeteria proper. "I've got the guns in the lockbox upstairs, Josh, if you need a fourth to search."

"No, darlin'." Joshua was not going to drag in a civilian, no matter how short-handed they were. "You stay here. If by any chance Frank and Joe show up, do _not_ let them out and do _not_ tell them what's going on, understood? Keep your mouth shut, Harold. I'm not in the mood for it."

Downs raised his eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Ruth?" The night desk receptionist poked her head into the cafeteria. "Someone called Drake said to tell you 'Frank left the Center and didn't tell anyone where he was going'. He said you'd know what he meant."

"Thanks, Shirley," Ruth said, sighing.

Joshua's head hurt. "God bless it, Mar, did you raise those three with automatic trouble detectors?"

"That was Fenton's doing," Mar said.

No. He wasn't going to say it. Joshua rubbed at his forehead. "Okay. Let's assume Hawk had a few brain cells and decided to parallel, and not shadow directly behind. I'll go the warehouse-lot route, you two take Bancroft Street —"

"No," Mar said, still calm. "You and Harold team up. That way we've got mind-communication between us."

When he got back, Joshua was going to force walkie-talkies through on the budget, no matter what Eli said. The _Southern-gentleman_-side pounded into him by Alma did not like the idea of Mar being alone, though the _jungles-of-Vietnam-survivalist_-side wasn't about to say that out loud.

"Another option," Downs said. "I'll go down Carroll, in case she _wasn't_ thinking, and we'll check in every intersection."

It split them up, but Joshua could see the reasoning on that one, and liked it better; it still put Mar alone, but put everyone in fast reach if trouble happened, at least. "Harold's plan. If someone doesn't check, the remaining two pair up immediately and check the third's route. If you don't see the third in the open, return to Wings, call in _everyone_."

"Understood," Mar said, and Downs nodded.

One thing to be grateful for — Downs had been one of the Blades on Karma in New Orleans, and had seen the aftermath of Thatcher. There wasn't any argument over the precautions. Joshua cut out the back door and headed for the warehouse lots, slipping through the fence and around the semis parked there, checking the likely spaces that a body could be stashed and a few of the unlikely ones.

All negative.

All three met at the Jennings intersection. Still negative, and now Joshua was definitely worried, as they split back up. Kris shouldn't have gone that far, she _knew_ better, he'd pounded it into that mousy-blonde head of hers…

_:Got her.:_ Mar's mind-voice. _:Three buildings down. Pulse, but unconscious.:_

Blowing out a heavy breath of relief, Joshua picked up his pace and jogged to the next intersection and cut over to Bancroft Street; from there, he broke into a loping run, as Downs waved him over. Mar knelt in a fenced-off lot of heavy-fencing and construction machines; Kris was curled in the lee of a pile of metal shelving…or, rather, she had been. Shaking her head, she was struggling to rise, mumbling in answer to Mar's worried questions, until Joshua called a halt.

"Not here, Mama Hawk. Let's clear out, before someone sends security to check why we're here."

Simple enough for Joshua and Downs to haul Kris to her feet and help her stumble back to Wings. She wasn't coherent, copacetic, coordinated, or any other _co-_ that Joshua could think of, as they hauled her into the small room that Wings used as a first-aid clinic and shooed out the nurse on duty, much to the woman's irritation. Joshua pushed Kris down onto the couch, as Downs grabbed a blanket from the medical closet.

"She was acting like this in New Orleans, right after she got attacked. Look." Mar pulled the collar of Kris's shirt down at the back, just enough for Joshua to see the red mark, about the size of a man's hand, right where shoulder and neck connected.

Just like New Orleans, but without the blisters.

Using mage-energy to disrupt the nervous system and knock someone unconscious took a lot of power and control — one could kill the other person easily, if one wasn't careful. Presumably, Thatcher had done that to Joe's spine, ruining his legs; Thatcher's attempt at Kris had burned her shoulder, front and back, with second-degree blisters.

And Kris's message claimed one of the kids had been taken over…

Joshua probed gently with a mental "hand", then sat back on his heels. Dear ever-loving God. No signature, not even a trace of an energy attack, just like what had attacked Frank and Joe at the Center.

That couldn't be possible.

Frank and Joe had claimed that the man — Vladimir — wanted to protect two of the kids. To claim that, yet attack Kris…though that was assuming it was him…

If it was Thatcher, if he'd taken over that kid, that meant he was working through a human tool. That could change a signature. Maybe. Possibly. It wasn't something the Association had been able to test, after all.

Joshua bent his head, his hand clenched around the medallion at his chest, and breathed a prayer to St. Michael. _ Watch over those kids. Protect them. Please._

"Butterfly?" Downs said.

"No sig, no traces." Joshua kept a tight rein on his voice. "Like there's nothing there at all. Like the attacks."

"Her pulse is strong," Mar said. "No bleeding. Skin's not clammy, so she's not in shock, at least."

Two kids missing. One kid possibly taken over by Thatcher, if Kris was right. Kris attacked. Frank and Joe attacked twice at the Center itself. And Frank had left the Center. Joshua closed his eyes, forced himself to think.

Immediate first. "Okay. Mama Hawk, you and I are going to get Kris back to Center and Trevor. Harold, you stay here. I'll send Angel down as soon as he's back."

"I'd prefer Drake," Downs said dryly.

Joshua smiled, thin, tight. "Understood, _chè_, but Angel knows the 'hood, and he knows those kids' mama personally, so to speak. If Frank shows up, keep him here. Under no circumstances is he to go out after those kids, no matter what."

"You're really impressing me with his abilities, butterfly," Downs drawled. "You recruited him, and here you're scared of him getting involved. Real nice."

Joshua closed his eyes, counted to ten. Twice. "Use your brains, darlin'. If it's Thatcher. He had Joe at his tender mercies for all that blood magic, and that ties Frank in. Blood-connection. I'd prefer to not hand the SOB two pre-packaged victims, if you don't mind." Joshua looked down at Kris. "Same might go for her, through Vão and Rafe." Joshua didn't think things had gotten that far with his partner and the two musicians, but he wasn't about to take the chance. Especially not with what Kris and Vão had done, with the tapping — none of them knew what the effects of _that_ would be.

Now Downs looked a little sick, and Joshua didn't blame him. No one who'd helped clear that mess in New Orleans had gotten away un-scathed.

On the couch, Mar had Kris curled in her arms, murmuring to her as if Kris was a child again; Kris definitely wasn't in any kind of shape to deal with anything — she muttered as if talking in her sleep.

"I don't think it was Thatcher," Mar said. "They left her alive, for one, and she's not physically hurt, as far as I can tell. They put her under those shelves, out of sight…"

"Protecting her, you mean." Joshua thought that over. Thatcher wouldn't have any reason to be merciful to any of them, definitely not to Kris or Joshua. "I can't see Hawk mistaking that SOB for anyone else, though."

"Someone else involved, maybe," Downs said. "That tail?"

Just what they needed, another complication. "We can't take the chance." Joshua helped Mar get Kris to her feet. "When Angel gets here, try to track the kids' mama. The kids themselves, if he can. _Do not engage the charlie under any circumstances_, understood?"

Downs saluted, without any trace of sarcasm.

Joshua accepted it at face value. "I'll be back down myself after I get info out of Hawk and round up whoever else I can. Even L.A., if I have to. Thatcher or not, we're now at Defcon Five."


	36. Runnin' with the Devil

The worst part about walking into a possible trap: waiting for it to be sprung.

Frank settled into the Muni seat, trying to study Vladimir without making it obvious; Vladimir paid no attention. Vladimir might be on the up-and-up as far as wanting to protect those kids — the circumstances made it unlikely that he'd been faking that much — but something else was going on, that was certain. This was all too similar to what had happened with Thatcher, but there were also differences, things that didn't match up, and Frank wasn't sure what to believe or think at this point.

Frank had made that mistake with Thatcher. He wasn't going to make it again. Not with three children at stake.

But what _was_ Vladimir?

He didn't match anything Kris had said about vampires. Definitely not a corpse, possessed or otherwise…which left the whole cult thing, someone pretending. Though that magic he'd thrown definitely hadn't been pretending…magic that hadn't been there, according to Kris, and Frank couldn't help but remember Joe's claim about Stavlin not being in the mirror. That was one of the signs of a vampire, according to Hollywood, anyway. So if vampires couldn't be seen in a mirror, would their magic be the same way? Unseen?

Then again, Vladimir hadn't really said he was a vampire.

Okay, obsessing over that point: not relevant, not helping. It only distracted from the matter at hand.

Vladimir had admitted he'd wanted Frank and Joe's help with those kids, but that made no sense. Thinking it over, the assertion that Vladimir hadn't wanted to involve Joe wasn't anything to trust the man on; it meant that Frank would be alone.

That the man wanted either of them to begin with — specifically them — was worrying. Just because the kids in question had seemed to trust Joe? A couple strangers who'd barely been in town two days, when there were others at Wings who were trusted, as well?

But if it was a trap — a trap for _what?_ And why? A serial killer could've had many easier victims. Frank wasn't Gifted, so that ended that reason, right there. Though Frank and Joe had been in New Orleans less than twenty-four hours when Thatcher had latched onto them, there'd still been a _reason_ that he'd targeted the brothers_:_ Joe being Gifted and un-trained. Even then, Thatcher had only struck when the picking was easy. He hadn't made elaborate plans to get his victims — and the one time he did, it fell apart, hard.

Frank scowled. _If_ it was a trap. _If. _ The original meeting point had been a public bar, after all. Vladimir couldn't have anticipated the angry crowds, and _Frank_ had been the one to pick Wings, not Vladimir. It was impossible to set up a trap if one didn't know the destination ahead of time. Vladimir didn't seem to care what Frank thought, one way or another, for that matter.

The Muni jounced, bringing Frank out of his thoughts. Their stop, Third and Palou. He got to his feet, let Vladimir precede him off the Muni. Frank looked around to get his bearings, then headed down Third towards Wings.

"You trust me to walk with you, at least." Vladimir sounded amused.

Frank said nothing. So far, the man had only thrown magic; he hadn't been much in a real fight. Frank could probably handle him, and if magic got involved, it wouldn't matter if they were on the Muni or street.

Uneasy thought.

Well, Vladimir hadn't done anything so far, and he'd had plenty of opportunity. Even at this time of night, there were enough cheap bars that the street was still busy; being in public and in full sight of other people made an attack less likely.

Even now, Frank couldn't help looking around, wary and uncertain, studying landmarks, stores, people. For being the rough part of town, it was still colorful: low two-story buildings of stucco and red roof tile covered in murals and colorful mosaics along with the security bars alternated with somewhat taller brick buildings in the fake-Greco-Roman 1920s style, mixed in with the odd canal-type houses with bayed windows, and all of it in bright hues of yellow, red, green and blue. A heavily-barred bank, a bright-pink bakery advertising cheesecake with folks hanging out on the steps and curb outside. Neon-lit food-joints crammed with people and smelling of fried shrimp, several barbecue places. Run-down bars, a storefront proclaiming "Maranatha Gospel Church", pawn shops next to plumbing and hardware stores. More pawn shops, more bars. The median down the center of Third was stuffed with yucca plants and giant palm trees — the only big trees in the city, as far as Frank had seen to this point.

They'd gone maybe a quarter mile when Vladimir's breath hissed in. Frank turned; the man had stopped, staring across the street. Frank followed the gaze, and halted.

Haloed in the blinking red and blue lights of a bar, Edward stood at the corner, watching the passers-by. He looked even thinner, sullen, more ragged, dressed in a black Niners' t-shirt and torn jeans, rubbing at his arms as if they hurt. Even from across the street, Frank could see distinct bruises.

Then a passer-by, an older white man who looked like a bad disco movie, stopped to talk to the boy. Edward shifted, as if uncomfortable; the conversation got heated — and then the older man grabbed Edward's arm, and Edward yelped in pain.

That did it. Frank started across the street.

"Frank, _no!"_

But the movement caught Edward's attention, and his eyes widened. He yanked free of the man's grasp, took off running.

The disco-man stumbled in front of Frank. "Hey, man, butt out!"

Frank shoved him off the curb, not caring what happened, and ran after Edward. "Edward, _wait!"_

The kid kept running, through a residential street lined with houses, then cut down two side streets, around corners, across an iron-fenced lot — they were now in some run-down warehouse area, smelling of machines and oil, old wood and rust. For a junkie, the kid was _fast._

A hand grabbed Frank's arm, yanked him around and to a halt, slamming him back against a wall. Vladimir.

"For someone so wary, you will run right into a trap," Vladimir snapped.

"Hardly a trap," Frank shook him off, "when he's picking up tricks on the street corner. And if it is, he'll lead us right to the others."

"What, infiltrate the enemy by letting him trap you in his lair?" Vladimir said scornfully. "That only works on TV."

"I didn't say that," Frank said, keeping his temper in check. "I said _lead._ He's scared. He's not thinking. He'll run to wherever his home base is. You said he's being used as a lure for that cult, right?"

Vladimir scowled, then shoved Frank ahead of him. "Fine. Lead on."

By now, though, Edward had probably lost them. Catching his breath, Frank walked up to the next turn, looked around the corner, halted in surprise.

His eyes closed, arms crossed, panting, shivering, Edward had collapsed against a space of graffitied wall between two open warehouse roll-doors. Across the road, a light flickered outside a door covered in iron grill-work; a Ford pickup truck sat half-in, half-out of another roll-door, its bed packed with similar ironwork.

"Edward?" Frank said, and the kid's head snapped up. "Take it easy. I just want to help. " Frank halted, as Edward pushed away from the wall and backed up. "I just want to talk to you, that's all. I'll stop here, okay?"

Silence. Those weird, all-black dilated eyes…the sullen expression, the stance, the slow backward pace…

…just as Kris had been when Frank and Joe had first met her, a small, trembling, abused runaway backed up against a wall in an abandoned farmhouse, terrified that the brothers would drag her back to her abusers…

"It's okay." Frank kept his voice low and soothing; whatever this kid was on, it couldn't be good. "It's okay, Edward. Really. I want to help you, that's all."

Frank wasn't sure exactly where he was, but they couldn't be too far from the shelter. If he could get the kid there, Ruth could take charge of him; hopefully Kris was still at Wings. If not, Frank could call the Center from there.

Edward's gaze moved up, behind Frank.

"Where are the children?" Vladimir said.

That black gaze flickered to Frank and back, then Edward darted across the street, past the pickup and through the roll-door.

Frank eyed the building, noted the street number above the door and the surroundings. Time to back-track, head to Wings and make that call. He turned, pulled up short; Vladimir was right behind him.

"I believe the phrase is, he went that-a-way," Vladimir said.

"And Wings is _that_ way. I'll be back." Frank brushed past Vladimir, headed back the way they'd come.

"There are two young children whose lives are at stake," Vladimir said. "You just leave them?"

Only two? "It won't do them any good if we get caught."

Silence. Then, "No, it won't." Grudging admiration.

Frank ignored that, turned back. He could hear heavy traffic and the sound of the Muni; they didn't sound that far off. Get back to the main drag, find Wings…

"However," Vladimir's hand gripped his shoulder…

…energy shocked through Frank, ripping consciousness away as Vladimir's voice faded swiftly to dark silence…

"…if just _you_ get caught, it will."


	37. Romeo Lies Bleeding

Deep darkness. Joe was wrapped in something warm, something that breathed against his skin, something that stroked his face, down his side…

…_soft wrinkled hands touched, grabbed, prodded. Paralyzed, he couldn't move, couldn't fight. Rope wrapped around his neck and crushed in, while the stroking, the probing, the whispering went on…_

"Joe?"

…_strangling, convulsing, Joe struggled for air, for one breath, one gasp…and the hands wouldn't leave him alone, invading and insistent, yanking his head back. The rope let go; Joe gasped in air, heaving, retching…_

_Someone was screaming, screams that faded to labored breathing, then silence._

The touch became a firm grip. "Joe…"

"_No."_ _An old voice, clipped and precise in its schooled British accent. "No, open your eyes." Metal pressed in under Joe's throat. "Open your eyes, Joseph."_

The grip was shaking him. _"Joe…"_

_A hand tangled in his hair, yanked his head back again, and the metal pressed in, pressed up, forcing a sob from him. Joe opened his eyes…_

_He stared into Frank's lifeless face._

Choking, Joe jolted awake, shoved himself partway up on his elbow to hang over the edge of the bed, and gasped for air, for normalcy. Shapes, shadows in the dark, nothing looked familiar…it wasn't real, it hadn't been, it couldn't have been…

A warm hand touched his hip. "Hey."

The terror tore loose. Cloth tangled his limbs, and in his fight to escape, he slid off the mattress and hit the floor wrong, pain jolting through his legs. Somehow he scrabbled away, hit the wall opposite, and, forced to stop, huddled there, shivering. He didn't know where he was, nothing was familiar, nothing was right, he was trapped…

A plastic click: light flooded the room.

…_light bore down on him, stark yellow-green fluorescents swinging on industrial chains in the old warehouse…_

"Do you know where you are yet?" Quiet. Female.

Eyes squeezed shut, Joe collapsed back against the wall. He couldn't breathe, couldn't get any air, and the light wouldn't go away, even through his eyelids. Shudders racked him, convulsive, painful. Cold. He was so cold.

"Here." The soft sound of cloth dragged across the floor, then a blanket was draped over his shoulders. Warm presence sat nearby, close, but not touching. "Maybe an easier question. Do you know _who_ youare, yet?"

It startled a gasp of laughter from him. "Yeah."

"Okay, then." Just a hint of amusement. "You're safe. It's just my studio. Open your eyes."

…_open your eyes…_

Slowly, shivering, hand raised to block the light, Joe opened his eyes. Wood. Brick. Large canvases splashed with chaos and lines. A rumpled bed in warm tones of gold and brown. The smell of paint, with an undertone of sandalwood, sweat, and sex.

"You know who _I_ am?" A pause. "Besides someone who's not getting any sleep tonight, I mean?"

Another laugh shook him. "Someone who's about to get really mad at me?"

"No. Never. Not for this, anyway." Jamie scooted closer. "Need to talk? Or just need a shoulder?"

She'd never understand. It was just another attempt to gawk at the horror show, just like all his and Frank's friends had…

"May I?"

He couldn't look at her. "May you what?"

"Um…may I, please?"

That wasn't what he'd meant, but…Joe shrugged.

Jamie dragged another quilt over, draped it loosely around both of them, creating a warm, comforting space; the quilt smelled of sandalwood and cedar. "If you want to talk, I'll listen," Jamie said. "If you just want to be quiet and get your calm back, that's fine, too. If you need a shoulder, I'm here. If you need to be alone…um…well, it is my studio, but that's okay. I'll go back to my bedroom."

That surprised him. "This isn't it?"

Jamie smiled. "No, silly. The mattress is for my models. I've got a waterbed in my room." She cocked her head. "If you want to go back there, we can do that, too. I should've offered earlier — the waterbed might be better for you. With that limp, I mean, the warmth and everything."

Joe looked at her. It hadn't sounded like a come-on. Just an honest offer.

"Y'know, I've had guys fall asleep on me, but you're the first one to flee in terror. I didn't think the gossip about my work was _that_ bad."

Then it sunk in. He was sitting here naked with a gorgeous woman…also naked…and they'd…he'd…Joe blushed.

"You've got a wonderful smile." Jamie touched his cheek, then rested her palm against his face. "Wow. I actually made a guy blush? I didn't even manage that with Rafe…well, until the grapes, anyway."

If his face was as red as it felt, she was going to think he was sick. "It's just…it's…I mean, I've never…"

She blinked, then grinned. "You mean you were a virgin? Really? I corrupted the Naive Farm-boy?"

…_Thatcher leered down at him. "Oh, a virgin! This will be fun…"_

Memory and pain shocked through him. Arms crossed around himself, gasping, Joe crumpled forward, fighting to stay in control. He wasn't there, he was here, _here…_

Jamie caught him, pulled him against her shoulder. "Hey…hey…it's okay." Soft, soothing, puzzled. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's totally fine. You just surprised me, that's all. Guys usually don't admit that…what?"

Joe was shaking his head.

"That's not it?" Silence for a moment. Then, quieter, "New Orleans?"

Trembling, Joe nodded. His throat seized up; he couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't see…

"Shhh." Jamie wrapped her arms around him, pulled the quilts up, a comforting cocoon of warmth. "Jeez, I'm shoving my foot in deep tonight, huh?"

The quip made it out before Joe could stop it. "That wasn't your foot."

A pause, then Jamie giggled. Slowly, slowly, Joe relaxed in that warm cocoon of blanket and quilt, curled with her against the wall. The silence stretched out, comfortable and warm. He didn't want to move, didn't want to do anything but sit here, wrapped in her arms and the warm silence.

"This probably isn't going to come out right, but…what happened, there. It doesn't count. Like this, I mean." Jamie tapped his nose, gentle and light. "Your first time is the time _you_ choose, and who you choose with. No one can take that choice from you. No one." Murmured in his ear, "And I'm honored."

She hadn't asked about the nightmare or what had happened, only if he wanted to talk; she hadn't pushed the matter, didn't even seem curious. Joe dropped his gaze, seeing the blaze of color of the phoenix. The inks hadn't smeared at all, as far as he could tell. "I…" The word choked him; he swallowed, tried again. "I…I'm back there. Like…like it's happening all over again. Like Thatcher…like he's still alive, and he's…he's…" Stop. Breathe. Get control of his voice. "It won't stop. It just keeps happening. I can't stop it. He used magic, and I…I can't…it won't…"

"Easy." Jamie shifted her position to allow Joe to settle against her. "It's not magic. Really, truly, cross my heart. The nightmares will stop. They really will."

Unable to meet her gaze, Joe said nothing.

"I know," Jamie said. "Easy for me to say, huh?"

"Are you reading me?"

"Never. Never, ever." Jamie was silent a moment, then sighed. "Look, you know I'm an artist. I'm actually a dual-major. Psychology and art therapy."

"So you are reading me," Joe said bitterly. "Digging in my head for the horror show."

"You're not a horror show." Patient, though with a touch of exasperation. "And it's not your head I've been digging — not _that_ one, anyway." Jamie cocked her head. "Though it is a very good-looking head. Both of them."

That caught him. Joe blinked. "You've got eyes down there?"

That caught _her._ She opened her mouth, shut it, then laughed. "You," she said gently, and kissed his forehead. "What I meant — there's a lot of pain at Wings. You don't run away if everything's peachy at home. And they have nightmares, too." She pulled the quilt back up around them. "That's what I want my art to do. To help the nightmares go away."

Everyone kept telling him it'd all go away, but it was hard to believe it. It'd been over two months now, two months of insomnia, of waiting for the horror to take him every time he closed his eyes…

"They'll go away, they really will," Jamie said softly. "Cross my heart." She smiled. "I know, it's hard to believe that right now, but you'll just have to trust my word as an Evil Overlord."

…and she'd taken his scars and transformed them into a glowing blaze of fire and flight…

"I thought you Evil Overlords didn't offer insurance," Joe managed.

That got another of those dazzling smiles. "It's not. It's called 'brainwashing', and that's totally in my Evil Overlord contract."

Joe considered that a moment. "Well, you're really horrible at it, then. I'm still capable of independent thought." He looked up, wide-eyed, over-innocent. "I think I need another session."

Now Jamie laughed…and Joe pulled her head down to his, kissed her, and then he was lost, overwhelmed in sudden need, gentle, tender, and fierce all at once…

"Jamie, darlin'? Is that minion of yours still back there with you?"

They broke apart, foreheads still touching, breathing in the warmth between them. "You're a really, really loud thinker," Jamie breathed, grinning.

Joe sighed. "I've been told." He let his lips brush hers again…

"I'd better get an answer in the next five seconds." Joshua sounded as if he was just inside the hallway. "Joe, I need you out here yesterday."

"Make than an extra-extra loud thinker," Joe muttered.

"That's an understatement, my minion." Jamie pushed herself up and headed for her studio door. "Excuse me a moment."

Oh God. She wouldn't dare…

…she did. "Joshua Thomas, of all the stupid, ham-handed, idiotic bad timing…"

Dead silence.

Joe couldn't help but stare at her nude silhouette framed in the doorway, the way her hip cocked, the way the hall light shone on her hair and highlighted all the right curves…

"…you can give him time to get dressed and shower. If I have to paint you a clearer picture than _that…"_

"Jesus _wept_, darlin'!"

"Oh, cut the embarrassed act, Josh, I don't have anything you care to look at. Twenty minutes."

"Ten. Or I'm coming back and draggin' him out myself. And that gorgeous minion of yours _does_ have stuff I care to look at, as you so nicely put it. Clear?"

With a dismissive gesture in Joshua's direction, Jamie came back in the studio. By this point, Joe had pulled the quilt up tight around himself.

"Nice tits, by the way," Joshua called, followed by the hall door shutting; Jamie rolled her eyes.

"I hate to say it," she said to Joe, "but he will make good on that threat." She held her hand out, helped him to his feet. "C'mon. You can use my shower to rinse off, at least."

"But…" Joe looked down at the phoenix again.

"It'll be fine. The inks won't run." Then she cocked her head. "Do you mind me taking some Polaroids? That way I've got a photo reference if you want me to redo it."

What was it about her that made him blush so easily?

Her laugh was gentle, teasing. "You can put your jeans on, silly. Unless you _want_ to leave them off…but…" She looked down. "…well…I prefer looking at the real thing."

To his surprise, she was blushing. Now Joe grinned; he spied the camera on one of the worktables, limped over, snagged it, and handed it to her…though he kept a tight grip on the quilt. "Here. Go ahead."

It was twelve minutes, and Joe nearly ran into Joshua as he was limping out of Jamie's hallway, Jamie right behind him.

"The clinic," Joshua said, with a jerk of his head — the Center's equivalent of a small ER, and where Trevor worked. "We just brought Hawk back."

"_What?"_

"Oh my god," Jamie said. "What happened?"

"We don't know, _chè,_" Joshua said. "Someone sucker-punched her about a quarter mile from Wings, and she's barely copacetic at the moment. Joe, darlin', I got one question, and don't give me any stalling. Where did that brother of yours take off to?"

Joe froze.

Joshua scowled. "He didn't tell you."

…_would you like to know who this hole's supposed to be for, after all…?_

"He said he was going to go through Tag's books," Joe said, through a dry mouth. Dear God. "That's all I know."

"Joshua." Mar, from the top of the spiral stairs. She came down, handed Joshua a piece of paper. "This was on the fridge. Kris is in her room. Trevor wants her to rest — she's not clear on what happened. Just that she was following that kid and someone else grabbed her from behind."

"Kris was following what kid?" Joe rasped. "Edward?"

"Lido's," Joshua read, then fixed Joe with a glare. "He's meeting the Cabal?"

Now Joe was confused. "On Sunday, like you said. We were both going to go because of the whole vampire thing."

Vampire. Like Vladimir, maybe…

…and Vladimir had grabbed Frank, out in the woods. Now that Joe thought about it, that made no sense. Why grab the stronger of the two? Why not go for the crippled, exhausted target?

Memory: the voodoo dolls in New Orleans, and Frank insisting on following Thatcher despite all common sense and reason.

The stronger of the two, who had no defense against magic…

"You've thought of something," Joshua said. "Don't lie, _chè,_ it's all over your face, and I'm too damn used to Hawk getting that same look."

"Vladimir," Joe said. Why had Kris been following Edward? Why did Edward leave Wings? That didn't make any sense, either. "Frank was trying a bit too hard to get rid of me tonight, like he wanted me out of the way for something. I think he's meeting Vladimir."

Joshua stared at the ceiling. "Y'know, _chè," _careful, as if picking his words with extreme care, "I wanted you and your brother to shake things up around here, but I really wasn't expecting you to go full-tilt on that little project this soon."

"Or he's been lured," Joe said. "Like those voodoo dolls."

"Wait," Jamie said. "That makes no sense. I mean, luring him to _Lido's?_ That's next to the cinema, right?"

"Um, yeah," Joe said.

"The same one playing _Rocky Horror _this weekend?"

What'd that have to do with anything? "So?"

Jamie grinned. "Ohhh. A _real_ virgin. I know where I'm taking you later, my Evil Minion."

At least Mar looked as confused as Joe felt. That made Joe feel a little better. "We're going to get an explanation, I assume," Mar said.

"Evidently your friends didn't warn you enough about _Rocky Horror,"_ Joshua said to Joe. "Let's just say no intelligent evil magician trying to stay out of sight would lure someone within a mile of any theater playing it. Think of it like a drunk, obnoxious, gay Trekkie convention."

Joe scowled. "Thatcher killed people in the middle of Mardi Gras."

"All of them out of sight of the party," Joshua said. "He was trying to lure you to that warehouse, remember. The party was nowhere near there."

"But he got us in that bar first."

"Joe," Mar broke in gently, "how about giving your brother the benefit of a doubt and assume he knows what he's doing? I can't see him getting caught twice by the same trap."

That was the problem: Frank's idea of _I know what I'm doing_ didn't always match Joe's, and he'd evidently taken care to make sure Joe was otherwise occupied when he left, which meant something _was_ up that Overprotective Big Brother didn't want Joe involved in. But Joe said nothing.

"He wasn't acting like he had a lure on him, either, _chè,"_ Joshua said. "Think about it. Think how he acted in New Orleans after he touched that doll."

"_Will you stop being right and let me be paranoid?"_

"Joe, dear," Mar said, "Trevor doesn't want Kris left alone. I'd appreciate it if you watched her for me. Joshua and I need to get back down to Wings." Joe opened his mouth, and Mar held up a hand, stopping him. "We're going to be searching for those kids. Josh, we need to get back before Angel and Harold kill each other."

Translation: Joe would just be in the way. If Mar honestly thought Joe was just going to leave it at that…

…ohhhh, wait. "Sure, Mar," Joe said. He met Mar's gaze with as bland an expression as he could manage. Not that it would fool her, but he could at least act like he expected it to.

Luckily, Joshua hadn't learned that particular lesson yet. "Agreed, Mama Hawk. Joe, call us down there if Frank comes back. That's an order."

They were leaving him with Kris, his and Frank's little tagalong who'd gotten them into as much trouble as they'd gotten her out of. Mar and Joshua must really be distracted if they thought that playing babysitter to Tagalong was going to keep Joe out of it.

"I'll go get my canvas," Jamie said. "Maybe now I can finish Hawk's painting, since she's a helpless bed-ridden invalid and everything."

Joe watched as Joshua and Mar headed through the commons, then turned to limp up the stairs. He'd shake the story out of Kris, and if anything had happened to Frank, God help this city…


	38. Hotel California

**_A/N: Thanks to Caranath & Wendylouwho10 for the reviews! Happy Easter, everyone!  
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Frank couldn't move, couldn't see. His chest felt stuffed with ice, his stomach rolled with nausea, his arms and legs numb and unmoving; he'd been blindfolded. Vladimir had touched him, there'd been a shock as if he'd hit a live wire, like Kris had done during that game, like what Joe had claimed Thatcher…

Don't panic, _don't panic_.

Rough hands dragged him across asphalt and concrete; the lighting changed from street light puddles to sick-yellow fluorescent. Feigning unconsciousness, Frank listened, trying to tell how many of them there were — but he was remembering Joe's story, as Joe had lain drugged and delirious in the New Orleans' hospital.

…_he burned my spine, my legs couldn't move, and I couldn't feel anything…_

Frank swallowed panic back down. Dear God, don't let him be paralyzed…please…

He was dropped to the oily concrete floor. Below the edge of the blindfold, Frank could see stained concrete; he smelled oil, machinery, and unwashed sweat, and heard frightened whimpering. A young boy — Emelio?

"Our bargain was for both children," Vladimir said, somewhere behind him.

"In exchange for two." _Edward…?_ "I only see one."

Edward was imitating a schooled British BBC accent; that slid past odd and straight into freaked-out weird. "Both children" — that had to mean Rita and Emelio. But why was Edward talking like he was in charge?

"The other would do you no good," Vladimir said. "His Gift is wild. You could not control him."

Oh God, they were talking about Joe…wait…they were bargaining to exchange Joe and Frank for the kids? That made no sense whatsoever. What did Edward want with them? He was just a runaway; they'd only met the kid yesterday. Edward hadn't spoken at all to Joe and had barely seemed interested in Frank.

None of this made any sense — well, no sense _yet._ Frank stilled himself. Calm. Keep listening. Just let the facts come in. It'd all fall into place sooner or later, and hopefully give him a means to escape.

Uneasy mutters echoed around Frank.

"Still," Edward said. "Bring me the other, and you'll have the girl. Take him."

Emelio cried out, then started fighting, judging from the breathless sound of his begging and the cursing from other, older voices.

"_Let my sister go! Let her go! I'll stay — let her go!"_ Emelio's words ended in a hard smack of hand against cheek and a sharp cry of pain.

Another cry, then the sound of someone skidding across concrete. Vladimir murmured something, and Emelio cried out again — struggling sounds, then, suddenly, silence.

The soft pad of footsteps faded away.

So Vladimir had used Frank to bargain for the children. He wanted Joe for the same reason. This wasn't making any sense. Frank forced his breathing to remain even, steady. Slowly, carefully, he tried flexing his hand; it moved, as did his feet, if somewhat stiffly, and he stifled overwhelming relief. He wasn't paralyzed.

"Put him into the lorry," Edward said.

"Tac…" another male voice said uneasily, "…I don't think this is a good idea. I mean, using the kids, and now this guy?"

Tac was there, too? The one Edward claimed would turn him into a vampire?

"You're involved too deeply to remove yourself at this point," Edward said, as if he didn't care, and Frank froze. Edward…was _Tac? _ "Power has its price, and it must be paid. Put him in the lorry, or you will become that price."

Silence.

Hands grabbed Frank again; he stilled himself, not reacting. Dad had pounded it into his and Joe's heads when they were kids: _if someone grabs you, your only goal is to get away, no matter what, and never, ever, let them take you away anywhere._

But if he did, he'd lose his chance at finding where they were keeping little Rita…

No, no, _no, _there was no guarantee they'd take Frank to the girl or even leave him alive. She was being used for bargaining. What they wanted Frank for was less certain. It couldn't be good.

Decision made.

Breathe slow. Stay limp, dead weight. Let them drag him towards the truck, so they'd be tired from the exertion and he'd be closer to the exit. The truck had been sitting in the open roll-door, and Frank could see it through the bottom edge of the blindfold, front tire, truck door, rear wheel —

_There!_

Just the right position, their grips loosening from the strain — and Frank jerked free, grabbed the person nearest, twisted, and threw him over his shoulder to slam onto the ground. Frank's balance was off, his hands felt numb, and he didn't get the grip quite right, but the rest let go to a chorus of gasps and scuffling back. Frank took a precious second to rip the blindfold off, as he made it to his feet, stumbled against the truck, then swayed as his head swam and the room spun.

In that moment, he was surrounded — but Frank stopped, surprised.

They looked nothing like the evil brainwashed cultists of his imagination. Several white guys with various combinations of glasses, bad acne, pasty skin, scraggly-beards, unwashed, dirty t-shirts (one emblazoned with a cartoon hobbit_)_…misfits. Exactly the type of persons who would fall for an idiocy like the Cabal as Kris and Joshua had described them or even People's Gate. Someone who wanted to believe that they were different, that they had power, that they were somehow _special…_

Backed up against the truck, Frank had gone into defensive stance, but now straightened, settled into arms-crossed disbelief. "Are you kidding me?" he demanded in his best _get-real_ tone, as he edged towards the open roll-door, careful to keep his back against the truck for balance as much as defense. Dizziness made his head spin. "You idiots really fell for this nonsense?"

He could see them out of the corner of his eye, two of them between him and the exit. The faces around him were flushed in anger, their stances confused and uncertain. He wasn't acting scared, he wasn't acting like a victim, he wasn't playing into their delusion, and they didn't know how to react.

The space itself looked nothing like what Frank had seen in New Orleans, no magic, no circles. A regular machine-shop: red toolboxes on wheels scattered around the space, huge factory presses, table-saws, fluorescent lighting swinging on chains overhead. Routine, ordinary, normal.

Beyond them, in the shadows, arms crossed, Edward stood…

…smiling.

"Some junkie tells you he's Bela Lugosi, and you believe him." Keep talking. Keep them off-guard. Don't play into their power-trip. Frank's limbs ached, his feet felt numb. "Here I thought I was in trouble."

"He's backing towards the exit," Edward said calmly, to the group. "He's only distracting you."

What was it with this kid and the British accent? This was getting too weird — Frank shook his head to clear it. Wonder about that later. "So you commit kidnapping and assault because some junkie tells you to. That's a few years in real prison." Frank let the words sink in. "Right. Now I'm really embarrassed to have gotten caught by you people."

Uncertain glances went around the group; stances relaxed. Some of them were looking between Edward and Frank, and Frank could almost see the thoughts running in those empty, self-centered heads.

Good. They were worried. They were thinking. Now give them an out, something they'd want to believe. "Right. I'm leaving, and I'll forget all about this, because I really don't want to have to explain it —"

Behind his back, the pickup suddenly rolled forward, sending Frank stumbling to the side…

…and the roll-door crashed down.

Everyone jumped; yelps echoed through the concrete and metal. Heart pounding, Frank stared towards the roll-door. No one was by it, no one had been near it, and the truck hadn't started up.

Those worried expressions around him changed: wide-eyed awe — backsliding believers who'd just been given proof.

"He is only one. You outnumber him easily." Pale, Edward had one trembling arm outstretched towards the roll-door.

"You were crying for your mommy yesterday, Edward," Frank snapped back. "Neat trick, hot-wiring the garage door opener. You should open for Copperfield." Outnumbered or not, none of these guys looked as if they'd ever been in a fight in their lives, and they were hesitating. If he could rush and get past them for a precious second, there was a side door over there — get through it, block it, run for any place that had people…

Edward only smiled.

Movement at the corner of his eye warned him in time, one of the misfits swinging a two-by-four with the grip of one who'd seen too many gangster movies. Frank jerked back, the blow catching him across the shoulders and sending him stumbling as the others charged in. Frank lashed out with fists and elbows, connected with a solid punch into one guy's gut that doubled that one over, stomped on another's instep — _there!_ Frank grabbed his chance, dodged through and broke past…

…tripped on an outstretched leg, recovered, but then the dizziness betrayed him. Frank staggered as the room spun…

Weight tackled him from behind, driving him face- and stomach-down to the concrete and knocking the air from his lungs. Wheezing, choking, Frank couldn't do anything but struggle for air as hands grabbed his wrists and arms and twisted them painfully back.

"Search him for anything suspicious." Edward staggered to stand over Frank, as clothesline rope wrapped around Frank's wrists and legs and was knotted tight.

Those all-black, all-pupil eyes, that weird smile… Frank managed to gulp a breath, then another, enough to speak. "You've seen too many bad horror movies," he croaked out.

"Have I?" Edward knelt down, smiling into Frank's eyes. "Tell me. Did you hear your brother's screams, before you ran away?"

Wait…_what?_

"Of course, he wasn't screaming by the time I used the hacksaw. The human voice can only bear so much." Edward's gaze bored into Frank's face. "He had such a lovely voice."

Frank stared —

…_Thatcher's voice echoed through the warehouse. "Maybe the hacksaw again?…"_

— then a hand grabbed Frank's hair, yanked his head back, as duct-tape sealed his mouth and eyes. They hauled him up, then heaved him onto cold ridged metal; a heavy tarp was dropped over him. Metal creaked as others settled into the bed of the truck around Frank, and he heard the crank of the roll-door. Then the truck started up, backed out and bumped over the curb, and drove off.

Panic now grabbed Frank in unforgiving terror; he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't…couldn't…he hadn't heard that. He couldn't have heard that. It was impossible. Joe wouldn't have told that kid about New Orleans…

A hard jounce jolted Frank against the side of the truck bed; pain cracked through his head. One of the men swore at the driver as another pothole jounced the truck again.

The pain steadied him. Think. _Think._ Vladimir had implied the kids were Gifted; Edward had shown he was, back there. So if Edward was a telepath, or a jack like Kris, he could've "read" Joe at Wings.

That had to be it. That's how the little creep had known, and he was just trying to freak Frank out. Frank's breathing calmed, just a little.

But _why?_ Why do all this? Why kidnap him? Why be after Frank and Joe at all? The kid had no reason…

Speculation wasn't helping. Focus on the _now_; focus on getting out. A left turn, then a few minutes of straight driving — Frank couldn't hear other traffic, save for heavy machinery sounds, then a right turn and the road turned bumpy and rough, gritty grinding under the wheels as if gravel. The truck jolted to a sudden stop, slamming Frank against the truck cab, then hands grabbed him again, bundled him in the canvas, and slung him off the truck, dragging him across gravel and dirt. Metal crunched and squealed, the sound of another roll-door, and the dragging sounds changed: concrete, maybe. Smells of rust, old wood, mildewed canvas, the rattling of another metal door…

Then Frank was heaved across a space; he slammed into a wall. A second skidding thump as if something else was thrown into the room after him, then a door slam, then silence.

They hadn't bothered to unwrap him from the tarp, and Frank's hands and legs were numb from the rope. He lay there in muffled dark that stank of mildewed canvas and forced himself to breathe slow and deep, fighting to keep the panic down as he twisted his hands, trying to work the rope loose. If he could get it to stretch even a little…

Scuffing footsteps froze him in sudden panic, but then small hesitant hands touched his face, worked at the canvas and pulled it down, followed by a young, frightened gasp. Fingernails dug in around the edges of the duct-tape, worried at it, finally pulled it off.

Frank blinked up into a scared, wide-eyed child's face. Little Rita.

Still in the Minnie Mouse sweatshirt, she smelled like she hadn't had a bath, and her face was bruised, dirty, and tear-streaked; she sniffled, wiped at her eyes. But she kept working at the duct-tape gag until she pulled it off Frank's mouth, then started pulling at the canvas again until Frank was free of it.

"Are you okay?" Frank said, then caught himself. She hadn't spoken English when he'd seen her at Wings. "_¿Estás bien?"_

That resulted in a flood of whispered, frightened Spanish.

"_Habla lentamente, por favor, no he tenido mucha práctica." _Frank said. _Speak slowly, please, I'm out of practice._

Rita nodded. _"You're Joe's brother. Kris says you're her brother, too." _Then, shyly, _"I like Joe. He's funny."_ Still Spanish, still a bit fast, but understandable, at least. "_Where's Eme? They took him and they won't tell me where. They hit me when I asked."_

"Shhh." Frank kept a tight rein on his anger over those pathetic creeps hitting this little girl. "_He's safe." _Slow, calm; it wouldn't do her any good to see him angry. _"Vladimir has him."_

If anything, her eyes widened. _"No! He's bad, bad!" _followed by another flood of whispery panicked Spanish.

Closing his eyes, Frank breathed through his panic. Nothing he could do about Emelio right now. _"Can you untie my hands?"_

Trembling, biting her lip so hard it bled, Rita glanced fearfully at the door, then at something behind Frank, but she nodded. "_I'll try._ _It's very tight."_

Taking deep, steadying breaths, Frank relaxed against the floor, relaxed his arms as much as he could to give her any available slack, and studied what he could see of room. A bare, partitioned-off space: concrete-block walls, an old torn Playboy calendar taped to the near wall, and a metal door. The walls ended before they reached the corrugated-metal roof, the support beams and fluorescent lights well out of reach. Typical machine-shop office room, probably. Above him, if he twisted painfully to look up, a casement window, though it looked out of reach, too.

The floor-concrete in the near corner corner was broken away, exposing a drain stinking of human waste. Obvious what that was used for.

Rita worried at the rope and knots, her whimpering interspersed with _ow's_ and stopping to suck on her sore fingers; she got enough undone to give Frank some slack. But her fingertips were red and raw, one blister, a couple bleeding from scrapes.

"_Rest,"_ Frank whispered. "_I can get it now."_

It took patience and a lot of jaw-clenching as he worked his wrists free of the rope; his own skin was scraped raw by the time he finished, and Rita's wide-eyed gaze watched every move. Finally Frank pushed himself to sit up, biting back a groan as blood and feeling rushed back into his limbs, followed by the painful pins-and-needles of nerves waking up.

Sound behind him had Frank twisting around, heart pounding, to stare at the base of the far wall.

Someone else had been thrown into the room with him.

Edward. Unconscious.

But then Rita grabbed him, huddling against him, rocking back and forth, and babbling in non-stop Spanish, all her terror rushing out in overwhelming relief at seeing a friendly face. Wrapping his arms around her, Frank murmured soothing nonsense as the child sobbed herself out. But he watched the door, listening for any sound beyond it. Think. He had to think.

The obvious first. _"Rita…Ritacita…"_ Low, soothing. _"Why is Edward in here?"_

Sobs eased to hiccups. "_He's the vampire. The vampire goes inside him. It makes him sleepy." _ Her trembling increased. _"The vampire wants to eat when he's done."_

The vampire goes inside…?

Edward had claimed to _be_ a vampire. _Evil spirits possessing a corpse,_ Kris had said, though she'd also said that possession usually happened with live people.

So Edward was being possessed?

…_he wasn't screaming by the time I used the hacksaw…_

Frank's arms tightened around the frightened child. _"He won't eat you now. Not while I'm here."_ Possession or not, Edward was still just a skinny teenage junkie, and Frank had no qualms about punching the little creep's teeth out if he tried to hurt the girl.

Think. _Think._

Assets: a sheet of tarp and a couple lengths of rope; not much. Stupid of these people to have left that stuff with him, but then again, they'd probably thought that a little five-year-old crippled girl couldn't undo the rope.

Frank stared up at the casement window. Out of reach and not enough of a ledge to grab onto. Even tied together, the rope lengths weren't long enough to reach the window.

Correction: out of _immediate_ reach. Frank smiled grimly.

He'd seen Rita limping at Wings, but her limp hadn't looked as bad as Joe's, and Joe was able to stand. "_Rita, if I hold you up, can you stand? On my shoulders, maybe?"_

The child blinked. Frank pointed; she looked up and her eyes widened. She nodded; the sudden hope in that small face was a painful jolt to Frank's heart.

No matter what, Frank would make sure she got out. He would not betray that hope. He braced himself to his feet, stood under the window, measured the distance with his eyes. The window ledge looked to be below the level of the walls; hopefully no one would see the girl.

"Okay." Slow, basic Spanish to make sure he was understood. "_Look around through the window. Tell me what you see when you come back down, okay?_ _Be very quiet up there. Don't make any sound or they might come in."_

Rita nodded hard, then let Frank lift her to his shoulders. He held her steady as she stood up, using the wall for balance, but she still couldn't reach the window.

"_Be brave,_" Frank murmured. "_Step into my hands. I'll try to lift you higher."_

She bit her lip, but did as he said, then lost her balance. Rita squeaked and fell against the wall, her foot kicking Frank's jaw before she managed to catch herself and recover; somehow Frank hung on and didn't drop her. For a long moment, Rita leaned against the concrete, trembling and gasping.

His arms shook with weariness and the remains of the magic-shock, but Frank adjusted his grip on her feet, then lifted her slowly until her head was just above the bottom edge of the window. Rita clutched at the concrete and glass as she pressed her face against the window and stared out, left, right, down, then looked down at Frank, nodded.

By that point, his arms felt like they were going to fall off, but he got her down to his shoulders, then to the floor. Rita collapsed to sit, her own legs trembling, and Frank eased down beside her, gathered her back into the hug.

That got a burst of rapid, breathy Spanish, and Frank shook his head. _"Slowly. I didn't understand."_

Her voice was muffled, her head buried against his chest. "_I saw no one. No lights. Gravel road, but there's a real street that way,"_ she pointed towards the window-wall, "_and warehouses. Empty that way,"_ this time towards the left wall, "_lots of weeds."_

"_Did you recognize anything? Do you know where we are?"_

Rita shook her head.

The big question. "_Can you open the window? Can you get through it and jump down?"_

Biting her lip, Rita looked back up, her gaze moving from the window to where they sat. It wasn't too great a distance, but for a child her size, it was big enough.

Then she nodded, her young face determined.

Frank glanced towards the door. He could hear talking, arguing. "Okay. _I'll lift you. Open the window. Get out. Jump down. Then run. Don't let anyone see you. If you see flashlights, hide and don't move." _Simple, basic Spanish, so there was no chance of being misunderstood.

She looked down. _"I can't run good. I'm not fast."_

"_That's okay. Don't take chances. Run to where there's lots of lights and cars."_ He stopped, thought; Third Street had been full of nightlife, bars and restaurants, and he didn't think they were that far from it. _"Find someplace with people. Grab someone — a waitress. A bartender. A cop. Tell them to take you to Wings. Cry and yell until they take you to Wings."_

Those big eyes filled with tears. _"I can't leave you! They'll hurt you! He'll eat you!"_

He…the vampire. Edward. Frank glanced at the teen: still not moving, either unconscious or asleep.

Frank took a deep breath. He had to stay calm. _"I'll be okay. When you get to Wings, tell Hawk. Or tell Joe, okay?"_

Tears streaked her face again, but she nodded.

"_Brave Rita," _Frank whispered. "_Brave, fierce little Rita. You're a little brave lion. Ready?"_

He lifted her slowly, struggling to hold his arms steady as Rita struggled with the casement window, then pushed the lower pane out. She whimpered as she scraped over the bottom edge of the metal window frame; Frank saw blood on her hands.

But she slid through. He heard a noise outside, something hitting gravel, and prayed she hadn't gotten hurt in the fall. The faint scrabbling sounds faded as the argument outside the door got louder. Frank shook his arms out, looked around, saw the tarp.

The argument outside the door ended; the voices moved closer. Frank grabbed the tarp up, moved to one side of the door. Fling it over whoever walked in, then try to shove through and run in the confusion. An old trick, but sometimes old tricks worked best. At the very least, he could distract them long enough for Rita to get some distance before they realized she was gone.

The door opened. Frank tensed, readying the throw —

— only for rope to tangle and tighten around his neck from behind, yanking him back and off-balance as something sharp bit into his shoulder…


	39. Angels with Dirty Faces

Rita picked herself up out of the gravel. Her knees were scraped up, her hands bleeding, her pants ripped at the knee, but it didn't matter. Run, she had to run, like Frank said. The vampire would eat Frank if she didn't find someone to help. It was dark, it was night, and the moon was up, and all those scary movies that Emelio liked said vampires got strong at night.

_Run to lots of lights and cars_, Frank had said. _Run and hide. Don't let anyone see you._

But run where? Rita bit her lip. She didn't know where she was — the stinky men had caught her and stuck her with a needle. She'd gone woozy and went to sleep. She and Eme had woken up in that cold room. Eme would've known where to go, but Eme was gone. That Face had him, the scary man who'd taken charge of them at the Farm because the Elvis-man had told him to.

Trembling, Rita limped a few steps, peered around the corner of the building, squinting into the dark. No one. She could smell the dead-fish stink of the Bay and heard the deep horns of boats. Maybe if she ran towards the real road…she could follow that. Frank had said to run towards lights and cars, and there were street lights over there.

Far across the big weed-filled lot, lights flickered on, off, then back on, catching her attention. Her breath caught: security lights shining on gigantic piles of junky old cars behind an old chain-link fence.

Yelling erupted from the open window. Frank's voice, abruptly cut off, more yelling.

She had to run. She had to get away. She had to get to lights and cars, like Frank had told her to do.

Her legs shaking, heart pounding in her ears, Rita stumbled across the gravel road and into the empty lot, through the scratchy, itchy weeds that were almost as big as she was, rocky ground, discarded concrete chunks, and gopher holes. She gasped for air; she kept tripping and falling, her legs rubbery and tired after only a short distance. Run, she had to _run!_

She wasn't good at running. Her twisted legs hurt too much. Emelio was the good runner. He was so fast, faster than a kicked soccer ball, and he was good at soccer, too. But Eme kept saying Rita would get better. Mama was saving for better doctors to help Rita's legs, just like Rita had helped Eme, and then Rita would run right along with Eme and play soccer and basketball with the other kids. Mama prayed a lot to the Mother of Guadalupe about it. The Virgin Mother would help them get the money, Mama said. The Guadalupe Lady loved children.

Noise burst behind her. Shouts. Lights.

Rita squeaked in terror, tried to run faster, but tripped and fell sprawling, face-down in the rocky dirt and prickly, itchy weeds. Gasping, she lay there until she could breathe again, then looked up through the weeds.

Flashlights and shadows played across the weedy lot and gravel road, as men's voices echoed around the ugly building. The stinky men, the men who'd said that they were angels and from outer space. They weren't angels. Rita knew what angels looked like, all white-glowy with pretty wings that looked like Mama's fancy shiny dress. The Bible said angels could look like normal men if they wanted to, but Rita didn't think angels would stink like those men did.

Maybe Frank was really an angel. He'd helped Rita. He'd comforted her and let her cry and get his shirt soggy. And — Rita's breath caught again — he'd known about the lights and the cars, even though he couldn't have seen them! Mama said angels did that, that they helped you, but you also had to help yourself or they wouldn't help you at all.

Maybe the Guadalupe Lady had sent him to help Rita.

Shivering, Rita watched the stinky fake angels and the flashlights. She could see their shadows whenever a flashlight moved over them, distorted devil-shadows that twisted against the building and ground. Their angry voices carried in the quiet night air, yelling at each other with bad words in English, yelling at Rita.

"_Get out here, you little brat! We'll find you! You're just making it worse for yourself"_

Stay down. Lay flat. Rita knew about hiding. She and Eme sometimes had to hide from Mama's customers while Mama worked, if they didn't get out of the apartment in time. Out here, in the dark and big prickly weeds, the stinky fake angels wouldn't see Rita unless she moved.

No, they weren't angels at all. Their shadows gave them away, just like in the movies. They were devils. Frank was the real angel. Frank had helped her. Frank had stayed behind to keep the men from finding her.

But angel or not, Rita really had to pee. Her stomach hurt. She was hungry; they hadn't fed her much, just cold McDonald's, a stale cheeseburger and small bag of fries that she and Eme had split hours ago, before they'd taken Eme away.

The flashlights and angry voices moved around to the far side of the building. Trembling, Rita got to her feet. Her tired legs shook. But she had to run. Run now, while the stinky men-devils couldn't see her!

She could hear their voices far behind her as she stumbled through the weeds and tripped over rocks. Excited shouting erupted; she saw her shadow flash ahead of her as their flashlights crossed over her. Terror seized her — she was almost there, almost at the fence! Stumbling, tripping, Rita didn't stop until she collapsed against the fence in a metallic rattle. Barbed wire coiled across the top; she couldn't climb that, and the men were getting closer, and she…she…

Then she saw it, just at the bottom edge of the fence. A _miracle:_ a small gap, as if a dog had clawed the dirt away under it. No time to question — Rita squirmed under the fence. The metal links scraped her head and back, yanked her hair and ripped her shirt, her favorite sweatshirt that Mama had gotten her for her birthday. But Rita made it through, scrambled to her feet, and stumbled through the piles of junk and cars. Behind her, shouting, the stinky men hit the fence. The fence rattled — they were climbing it, cursing at the barbed wire. They were too big for the hole under it.

_Run, hide, _the angel Frank had said. _Don't let them see you!_ Dogs barked, growling and snarling that seemed to come from everywhere, and men yelled. A gunshot screeched overhead, and Rita squeaked in terror. Hide, she had to hide!

She stumbled around a towering pile of crushed metal, squirmed through mounds of tires and scrap bumpers. There — a funny-looking blue VW Bug, crinkled and rusted, its hood gaping open in a broken metal grin. Rita crawled in through the broken windshield and slid to the floor to crouch in the dark. No seats or windows; only metal and broken parts, bent frames and rails. It smelled of rust, oil, and dog pee.

Barking came closer, snuffling, whining. Something large and black suddenly shoved its head and forepaws through the window, barking and clawing at the door. Rita yelped, scrabbled back against the other side of the Bug.

"You can't hurt me," she told the dog, her voice shaking. "An angel protects me. You can't hurt me!"

"_Fang! Buster! Ge'way from there!"_ Footsteps, a fat shadow blocked the light, then the dogs' heads were yanked back by their collars. "_Whaddahell you mutts doin', going on like that?"_ A puffy black face peered into the Bug, stared at Rita.

"You can't hurt me," Rita whispered.

"_Come outta there,"_ the man snapped in English, but Rita understood the tone and impatient gesture, if not the words. "_Come on."_

The stinky devil-men were all white. This man was black and smelled of good cigar smoke. He couldn't be one of them. The angel wouldn't have sent her to someone who would hurt her. Trembling, Rita crawled out of the Bug. The man wore a blue button-up shirt, with a shield-like patch on the shoulder and a holster around his waist — a cop? His name-patch on his chest read "Point Security" and under that, "Tobias"…Mama had read them a story from the Bible with that name. Another angel!

…_grab someone, a cop, tell them to take you to Wings…_

Tobias's expression changed, as Rita stood there shaking so hard she could barely stand. "_Oh dear Lord. You poor child. Who beatchoo up?_ _Those men?"_

"Wings," Rita said. He spoke too fast for her to understand, but his tone was kind. "Take me to Wings. Take me to Wings."

He looked confused. Maybe he didn't know Spanish. The angel did, but his brother Joe hadn't, after all.

"Wings," Rita repeated. "Please take me to Wings. Please. I need to go to Wings. Take me to Wings." Eme had been teaching her English. He was good with it. He'd said it was important. He'd been proud that Rita had picked up the words so quickly, even if she didn't always understand what she was saying. But she was so tired, her tongue was tangling around even simple words. Keep saying "Wings", maybe he'd understand.

The dogs whined and circled around behind Tobias. He snapped something at them, and the dogs bounded off. Tobias moved to pick Rita up — Rita shied back with a whimper. Angel or not, cop or not, she didn't know what he wanted or if he'd understood. What if he turned her over to those men again?

"_Here, wait here._" Tobias held his hands palm out, a clear gesture for Rita to not move. Then he bellowed towards a small single-wide trailer over by the fence. "_Hey! Paco! Getcherrassout heeyah!"_

The trailer door slammed open. A short chubby guy in overalls and an electrician's tool-belt peered out, saw Tobias, then saw Rita. "_What you got there, Toby?"_

"_Get over heeyah, I can't understand this kid."_

The incomprehensible English washed over Rita as she stood there trembling, and suddenly, her legs gave out. Overwhelmed in sheer exhaustion, she collapsed against the old Bug and started to cry. They didn't understand; they weren't going to listen. She was so tired, hungry, scared, she had to pee really bad, her legs hurt, her hands and fingers raw and bleeding, and the bad men were hurting the angel by now. They would let Edward eat him. The vampire would drink his blood, just as he had Rita and Eme. She didn't want Frank hurt. What would the Guadalupe Lady do if Rita got one of Her angels hurt?

The other man, Paco, had come over, his eye widening as he got a good look at Rita; he wore a patch over his left eye, and one of his front teeth was gold, like a pirate from the Mickey Mouse show on TV. He squatted down. "Hey, little girl, what's wrong? Someone been hurting you? Where's your mama?"

Rita choked back a sob. He spoke Spanish! "Wings," Rita repeated, wiping at her face. "I have to go to Wings. I have to. Please help me. _Please!"_

"_Wings,"_ Paco said to Tobias, in careful English. _"That's that hippie runaway shelter on Third. Wings of the Mother Goddess."_ Then, to Rita, "You mean the shelter, right?"

Rita nodded.

"_Those weirdos from the ol' hatchery were chasing her,_" Tobias said, and Paco scowled. "_Damn fools."_

"_Well, the hippies won't hurt her. They're good people," _Paco said. In Spanish, to Rita, "C'mon, little girl, I'll take you to Wings."

She had to know. "Are you a pirate?"

Paco laughed. "Arrrrr," he growled, showing his gold tooth, and Rita giggled.

They helped her back to the trailer, let her use the toilet and wash her hands and face, then Paco swabbed her hands with the same smelly stinging stuff Mama used to bleach her hair. Tobias handed her a napkin and a sweet, sticky doughnut from a box on the desk, and Rita wolfed it down to the last crumb. Then Paco wrapped her in a spare blanket that smelled of old cars and carried her out to a junky tow-truck with a skull-and-crossbones painted on the door, _SF Towing_ under that in faded letters. As Paco slid into the driver's seat, Tobias went over to an ancient soda machine, punched it, then brought a bottle of grape soda over and handed it to Rita, patting her on the head.

She didn't understand Tobias's English, but his smile was kind, and the soda was cold and sweet to her dry throat. She smiled back shyly, then squeaked and clutched at the dashboard as the old truck jerked forward. But Rita wasn't scared, not anymore.

The angel Frank had led her here, and these men were helping her like the angel had said they would. She wouldn't be hurt anymore. An angel was protecting her now…


	40. Blinded by the Light

**_A/N: Thanks to Caranath, Wendylouwho10, & DuffyBarkley for the reviews!  
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The rope whipped against his throat, yanked, choking him — Frank dropped the tarp, his hands grabbing the rope from beneath. He dropped and twisted, hoping to throw the attacker over his shoulder…

The other person simply let go. Over-balanced, Frank fell forward, recovered fast, but now the men tackled him, pinning him to the floor as more rushed in and dog-piled. Others crowded at the door.

"The brat's gone," someone snapped. "Get outside. Find her."

Struggling, Frank heaved up, fighting for even a tiny bit of leverage, but the men on top of him grabbed his wrists, twisted his arms back and re-tied the rope tight around his arms and wrists.

"Not that way," said Edward; the schooled BBC accent was back, crisp and precise. "I wish him to watch."

"Watch _what,_ you little freak?" Frank snapped, as he was hauled to a sitting position.

One of the men backhanded him across the face.

Smiling, Edward squatted to stare into Frank's eyes…that weird, all-pupil, black stare. "You truly don't understand, do you?"

Serial killers got off on their own power trips. They wanted their victims to be scared. Frank wasn't about to feed into the little creep's fantasy. "I understand a lot more than you think I do. You're a delusional heroin junkie who gets his kicks from hurting babies —"

"Shut up." One of the men grabbed Frank's hair, yanked his head back; his gaze raked Frank up and down. "You'll take a lot more bleeding than that kid will."

Rage had Frank's mouth. "Yeah, you're such a big man, hurting a little helpless crippled girl." His words ended in a gasp as the man's fist backhanded him across the face.

Even through the pain and terror, Frank was trying to think, to plan. The man looked familiar, sleek and tanned, his face showing a hint of jowl, thick dark hair slicked back like Elvis's. Frank had seen him before. Where? _Where?_

"He does not believe," Edward said to the watching people. "He is not one of us. That makes him fair prey."

"That's what you think," Frank grated out. "I'm not some homeless runaway. I made sure everyone knew where I was going. They'll be here. They'll get you."

Sharp metal pressed under Frank's chin. "You just don't learn," someone growled in his ear.

_Tsk_'ing, Edward shook his head. "By 'everyone', I assume you mean your brother…or maybe that little mouse and the hunter who helped you in New Orleans?" Edward smiled again, just a hint of teeth. "Good."

There was a stir of movement; angry voices somewhere outside the room, the slam of a far-off door. But then a woman dressed in black robes entered the room, followed by others. She carried a silver chalice and had a white priest's collar around her neck.

"Oh God," Frank groaned. "You guys look like rejects from a bad Nativity play — what'd you do, raid a high school graduation?"

The sharp metal edge pressed in harder.

Still smiling, Edward's gaze traveled Frank's body. "Such a waste. Intelligence, bravery, strength — a shame that you are not Gifted, Frank. Of course, if I had known how events would fall out, I would not have been quite so rough on your brother. But…_c'est la vie._ He will do, for a while."

"You're just like every other psycho out there," Frank said. Stay angry; anger left no room for fear. But…Joe would "do"? Do for _what?_ "You take forever to get to the point and you think the rest of us care about whatever your evil plot is."

Edward only laughed, a delighted, gleeful laugh that sounded just like…Frank clamped his mouth shut. No.

"My point. Yes. You have more pressing matters to worry about, my dear boy. This deluded junkie, as you call him, wishes devoutly to be a vampire." The schooled accent became crisper, enunciating each syllable, Edward's breathing labored and short. "And of course, these kind folks are teaching him." Edward stood up, swaying as if dizzy. "Forgive me, but it is a vice I do not share. Though I was able to instruct them in more efficient methods…"

Then Edward staggered to one side, collapsed against the wall, slid down to the floor.

The woman carrying the chalice blocked Frank's view. She was thin to the point of bony, straggly brown hair, intense eyes; she knelt next to Frank, setting the chalice on the floor, its silver glinting in the lights. It was engraved with a simple equal-armed cross enclosed in a circle.

Others had come into the room, about a dozen people in all, men and women kneeling down, all solemn-faced, watching, waiting. Behind them, some of the misfits from earlier stood along the wall, shifting and looking at each other as if uncertain what to do.

Then other movement caught Frank's gaze — a man helped Edward to his feet, then to stagger over to kneel with the others. Edward looked dazed…

…and his eyes were normal, a deep amber, no longer all pupil.

"The Lord took the cup and gave thanks," the kneeling woman murmured, "and gave it to them, saying, "Drink ye all of it, for this is My blood, the blood of the new covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins…."

Frank barely heard. His breath had caught, his heart pounding, dizzy and cold with terror as he saw the woman lay something else next to the chalice.

A tourniquet and an antique steel lancet, stained with blood.

Then he recognized the quote, the Gospel of Matthew.

The Last Supper.


	41. Never Die Young

**_A/N: Because Xenithia asked so nicely, and the last chapter was rather short...  
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_How do we keep getting ourselves into these situations?_

Joe had lost count of how many times he and Frank had asked each other that question over the past couple years. The response was their own private running joke: _It's a gift._

Mar had said to trust his brother, but the way Joshua had snapped that question out… There'd been well-masked fear in Joshua's voice. But…over what? Wings?

Joe limped into Kris's hallway, paused at her room door and peered in. The room was divided, with an archway in the far wall. The front part study area looked just like the pictures she'd sent. The windows swirled with colored glass and were hung with prisms. Satiny pillows of every color, tie-dyed beanbags, an overstuffed couch covered in a crocheted afghan, a hand-woven throw rug; battered metal desk, a butcher-block stand with one of the new smaller microwave ovens and a mini-fridge tucked under it…a good stereo…lots of books...

"Kris?"

"Back here."

Picking his way through the beanbags, Joe stopped at the archway. Her bedroom was a calm sweep of brick and hardwood, simple and uncluttered, with thick quilts and a gurgling floor fountain of slate and river stone. The windows were cracked open, letting in the cool night air off the Bay; the only light was moonlight. Joe breathed in the calm, slow and deep; it didn't help.

"Let me guess." Curled on the bed, Kris squinted up at him; bandages poked out from under the neck of her shirt, and a can of Coke and her migraine meds were on the nightstand. That, no lights, and the pained squint meant her head was killing her. "Mar recruited you for watchdog duty."

"One of them." Joe limped over, settled on the end of the bed. "Jamie's getting her stuff so she can finish her painting. Fair warning."

"Wonderful," Kris muttered.

Joe hesitated, listening for sound in the other room: no Jamie yet. "Mar said you were following a kid, and you got sucker-punched. Edward?"

Kris shook her head. "I didn't recognize the voice at all."

There was something she wasn't saying, Joe was sure of that. But he had no idea what — or worse, why. "So why were you following him?"

"I told you, I was going to check on him. I did, he left Wings, I followed, I got nailed, and next thing I know, _Shimá's _giving me the 'never go off alone in the Point' lecture."

"Yeah, well, you're lucky Frank's not here, because you'd have both of us on your case! You told us that area's dangerous, and you go out _alone? _ After some kid that might be part of a vampire cult?"

"I _said_ I got the lecture already…" Kris stopped. "Frank's not here?"

"He went to Lido's," Joe said. "After Vladimir, I think."

"Oh gods." Kris struggled to get up. "_Shimá _didn't say _that!_"

Joe shoved her right back down. "_Tell me what's going on!"_

Wide-eyed, she scooted back on the bed.

He hadn't meant to lose it like that. Gripping the edge of the mattress, Joe breathed out, got a grip on himself. "Sorry…I'm sorry. But something's going on, something more than those kids." He fixed her with a glare. "You've been hiding something, Tag. Me and Frank can tell. You're acting like you're under a lot of stress. Frank told me about what you saw at Wings after I left, and when I blew up the bathroom, you were a hair from freaking out."

"Um…you nailed me and Frank pretty hard…"

"Nice try. You blew off the Cabal as a joke but you got real weird with Frank over the vampires. Then Josh ran me to exhaustion, like he wanted me so tired I couldn't think. Every time there's been an attack, he's been shoving me back inside in a big hurry, and he wants every little detail. Like there's something he doesn't want me seeing…and he's looking for some sign that it's there."

She still wasn't looking at him.

Joe leaned into her line of sight. "Since when do we lie to each other?"

Kris looked up, then reached to her shoulder, pulling her shirt away from the bandages and picking at the tape holding the gauze on. "Do me a favor." Subdued. "Check this for signature."

There had to be a reason. Under the gauze, right where shoulder met neck, was a deep-red mark. Joe laid a careful hand next to it, forced himself to relax.

Nothing, just like — no, wait. Joe could feel/hear Kris's signature, but there was something else, something running close to it, a faint resonance…

Then it hit: _nothing?_

"Vladimir," Joe breathed. "It has to be. I mean, it feels like nothing's there at first, like you said about outside…but it's…it's mimicking yours. Like resonance — you know, when you hit one key on a piano and others sound, too?"

Her face lit up. _"_So _that's_ how he's doing it!"

"Don't side-track me, Tag."

She met his gaze. "Like I said, I was following Edward. Someone grabbed me from behind, right there, and it _burnt._ And it knocked me out."

…_a hard blow caught Joe across his lower back and _seared_ through his spine…_

No. She couldn't be implying that, but Joe's paranoia wouldn't shut up. It couldn't be. Thatcher'd _had_ a signature. Joe could still feel it, that slimy electricity crawling all over his skin. "That's what…what Thatcher…did to my legs."

"It wasn't Thatcher. Edward had already passed where I was. He couldn't have gotten behind me that fast."

The words settled.

Joe stared. "You…you're saying Edward is _Thatcher?_"

She wasn't looking at him again. "Before we left New Orleans, the police called Alma. They were having trouble. People getting sick, seeing things at the site. So Alma took me and Josh there. And we…went out."

"Went out," Joe echoed. He didn't think she meant out to dinner. The site — that was the warehouse. Watching Kris — the tagalong's hands were clenched white around the blankets, she stared down at the quilt, and she was biting her lip. She was _freaked_.

"Out of body. It's…it's just something I can do, all right?" she whispered. "But we got out, and we got attacked."

So she was saying she and Joshua were like ghosts, then? "Attacked by _what?"_

"I don't know. But…Thatcher's magic was still active. The spirits…the victims…they were trapped there. And they were being drained, drained until they didn't exist."

Drained…?

Oh…god…

Breathing in deep gulps, hands clenched, Joe bent over his lap, struggling to keep panic and fear from overwhelming him. He knew what Kris meant. It came back in his nightmares: himself shivering against the blood-soaked concrete, Thatcher pulling on whatever made him _Joe_, inch by inch, every cut, every slash, every touch, threads being pulled through his chest, face, and groin like a doctor removing stitches, a cold razor touch against raw skin followed by a pin-prick sharp tug…

Kris scooted closer, took Joe's hands into hers, a lifeline.

"I…I'm okay. I'm okay." Joe breathed out, his grip tightening on hers. "This…this is insane. Thatcher's _dead._ Frank _shot him."_

But ghosts existed. Joe had seen Mom, talked to her. Mar had said love was strong enough to cross that boundary. Hate was just as strong an emotion.

…_would you like to know who this hole's supposed to be for…?_

Several things clicked. "Frank said…the kid — Edward — claimed he'd been turned into a vampire. Someone called…_Tac._ Tac…Thatcher? And you said vampires could be evil spirits possessing bodies…"

"Dead bodies."

"Well, yeah, and the kid's a junkie doing heroin. Maybe heroin mimics death — I mean, didn't Thatcher do that with Rafe?"

Kris nodded.

Something else, something that Frank had overheard while Joe was still in the hospital: Dad on the phone to London, arguing with his contacts at Oxford University as he'd jotted notes into his black notebook. Frank had told Joe about it, and they'd picked over it, trying to place it into some type of pattern, something that made sense amid the overwhelming influx of un-sense…

Thatcher had terminal cancer. When he'd left London, he'd been given less than a year to live, and that'd been three years ago.

"I was down at Wings," Kris said. "Edward claimed to know where Rita and Eme were. He'd been looking for me. Me, specifically. He's never spoken to me before…"

…_beware the one alone, the one who does not speak…_

"…but I saw his eyes. All pupil. That's a sign of possession, Joe. And…" Kris took a deep breath, her grip on his hands tight, "…he spoke with a British accent. And he said things. Words, phrases that Thatcher used."

Joe's memory was hazed in blood, terror, and pain. Pain, rising to agony. Angry voices. Shadows watching him from the edges of the circle…

"In New Orleans, he tried to break Rafe's shields." Kris's voice shook. "That's what Thatcher was using Nathaniel for. And…and you."

Edward and Vladimir had claimed Joe was "marked".

…_or, rather, who I'd like to be digging it for. I can't seem to get very far with it…_

Even panicking, even one step from freaking, Joe's mind was still jumping through connections, causes, conclusions…

"He wants a new body," Joe whispered.

"Hawk?" Jamie came through the archway, her arms loaded with her canvas and paints. "Your phone was ringing out there_._ Ruth came through on your machine and she sounded freaked, so I picked up. She wants you and Joe down there now."

"Me _and_ Joe?" Kris said.

"Uh-huh," Jamie said. "Someone brought in Rita."


	42. Damaged Goods

_**A/N: awright, since Wendylouwho10 & Xenithia begged so nicely... Anyway, the Spanish here is as accurate as I can make it as a non-native speaker who's only had classroom lessons. Feel free to send me corrections if there's errors.**_

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There were a lot of things Joe had hoped to do that evening, all of them exploring the wonderful possibilities Jamie had shown him. Driving through San Francisco after midnight with Jamie and a drugged-up tagalong had not been one of them.

After one look at Kris — drugged on her migraine meds — and another at Joe — unfamiliar with San Francisco — Jamie had stomped her foot down and insisted on driving. Now Joe was ensconced in the front seat of the borrowed Pinto with Jamie and interrogating Kris on everything she could tell him about possession and the aftermath of New Orleans. Not that it made sense — the meds made Kris even more ramble-y, and Joe had no idea what questions to ask, or even where to start.

"So what happens to the other person's soul if Thatcher's in there?" Joe said, clinging to the one thread he'd been able to follow so far. "I mean, all those ghosts were there, but their bodies were already dead. What was he doing with them?"

"I don't know, I don't _know_." Kris rubbed at her temples. "Um…normally it's strictly one soul per customer, as far as we know. I mean, it's not something we can test. Possession's like someone barging into your bedroom and locking you in the closet while they redecorate the place and…"

"But Thatcher's locking a dead body in the closet," Joe said, cutting her off before the rambling got started again. "That's what it sounds like."

"More like he's tossing them out the window, only to have the building collapse around him," Jamie said.

Kris blinked. "Huh?"

Oh, good. Joe wasn't the only one confused. He waited, looking from Jamie to Kris and back.

"What I've seen," Jamie said, "with my shamanic project, I mean. Body and spirit are pretty tight with each other. Like a caterpillar in its cocoon — you force it out too soon, the caterpillar dies and the cocoon's destroyed. Maybe those others were tests. Figuring out how to do it without destroying the body."

Jamie was gorgeous, she was intelligent, and she made sense; Joe was definitely in love. "But…" He swallowed, got control of his voice, "Thatcher…what he was doing to his victims…he was destroying the body himself."

"Maybe not all of them?" Jamie said, glancing at Kris through the rearview.

"Hard to tell," Kris said slowly. "The cops weren't doing much post-mortem, except what they needed for ID. The sites me and Josh checked, the victims were definitely alive when…um…"

"Maybe those were to raise power," Joe hazarded. "What you told us before, about fear and pain being power, all that. He needs all that power to keep the body from dying? Or to keep the original owner out permanently?"

He _saw_ the light go on in Kris's eyes. "Oh…dear…gods. _That's_ what — what Rafe was in, that circled triangle. That's for ritual summoning, but not to protect the magician. It's to protect whatever was summoned."

"To protect Thatcher from getting evicted by the real owner, you mean," Joe said grimly.

Something else was at the back of Joe's mind, something kicking to get his attention, but when he tried to focus on it, it wouldn't come. Something…something about blood…about connections…

He looked up as the sound of the tires changed and thumped over a speed-bump. They were pulling into Wings' back parking lot, though they had to go around the front, since the back gates and doors were locked at this time of night. But no sooner had they gone through the reception area and into the day-room —

"_Joe!" _LittleRita launched herself up from the floor cushion, tackled into Joe, and held on, trembling, crying, and babbling in Spanish, followed by a second, slightly bigger projectile — Emelio.

"Eme came in right after I called," Ruth said. She looked exhausted. "Said he's ran away from 'someone bad'. And before you ask, Josh and the others left to search before the kids got here. They haven't checked back yet."

Both children clinging to him, Joe eased down to a bean bag, then wrapped his arms around them as best he could. He didn't understand anything Rita was saying, and Emelio was sobbing too hard to get anything out; Joe only murmured soothing nonsense, rocking them. Rita's hair was damp, her face bruised and hands and fingers bandaged; her clothes were too big for her, a worn pair of jeans and an oversize green sweatshirt. Emelio's face was likewise bruised, and he smelled of sweat and dirt.

Kris sat down on Rita's other side, her hand on Rita's shoulder. "I can't understand her," Kris said. "She's too hysterical."

"Let them cry it out." Jamie sat down near Joe. "Get it out of their system."

"What happened?" Joe said to Ruth.

"Some guy brought her in right after Josh and them left," Ruth said. "He found her hiding in his junkyard. The clothes she came in with were a mess, and she wouldn't talk to me or any of the night crew. She kept insisting on you."

"Who was he?" Kris said.

"I didn't ask. We got Rita to take a bath and she inhaled a couple PBJs like she hadn't eaten in a while. Eme's been the same — he would only talk to Joe."

That was odd; the kids knew Kris much better. Joe was almost a stranger to them. Kris was biting her lip, but she caught Joe's gaze, shook her head.

Rita's hysterical Spanish slowed, broken by gulps and sniffles, not that it mattered to Joe, since he couldn't speak it. But two words caught his attention, repeated over and over in the babble. "_Ángel"_…and "Frank".

A chill went up Joe's back. "Angel? That other Blade?"

"God, I hope not," Kris muttered. She leaned down into Rita's line of sight. "_¿Ritacita? ¿Eme? ¿Qué sucedió?"_

Rita sniffled, hiccuped; Emelio was falling asleep from sheer exhaustion. Joe tried to ease Rita over to Kris, but Rita clung to him even harder.

"_Lo siento, lo siento, conseguí a tu hermano el ángel en problemas y todo es mi culpa…todo es mi culpa…lo siento, lo siento…"_

"She keeps sayin' she's sorry," Kris said to Joe, "and your brother…um…your brother the angel's in trouble and it's all her fault."

"My brother the angel?" Joe stared at the little girl. _"_You mean _Frank?_"

"Joe," Kris warned softly.

Oh, Frank would never live this one down…if he survived what Joe did to him for going off alone, anyway. "Frank can get in plenty of trouble all on his own," Joe said to Rita. "He doesn't need your help, believe me."

Kris snorted. "He says the same about you."

Joe ignored that. He stroked Rita's head, slow and calming. "It's okay. It's not your fault."

"_Es bien, no es tu culpa,"_ Jamie supplied; Joe nodded his understanding.

"_No es tu culpa, Ritacita,"_ Joe said carefully. _"Es bien. _Um…why are you calling Frank an angel?_"_

Kris repeated that in Spanish. Wiping at her face, Rita gulped the words out against Joe's shirt. Jamie excused herself, went out to the back kitchen and came back with glasses of juice and a box of tissues, handed them to the children.

"The smelly bad men grabbed them," Kris said, translating, as Emelio nodded. "Her words, not mine. They locked her and Eme in a room, and…and…the vampire…was eating them…"

"_Vampire?"_ Ruth said.

Jamie elbowed her. "Not now."

"Yes, _now,"_ Ruth snapped. "I know what the Blades get into, and if it's going to hit Wings, I'd better get the whole story."

Still huddled against Joe, Rita gulped down the juice. She'd let up on the desperate hug, but the words still flooded out of her, frantic and upset.

Joe did not like the look on Kris's face. "'The bad men threw Frank in with me'," Kris translated. "'I untied him, and he lifted me to the window and told me to run —'"

"Just Rita?" Joe said, confused. "Not Eme?"

"I wasn't there!" Eme burst out. "Vladi took me and he left Frank for the vampires!"

"One at a time, Eme," Kris said. "Let Rita finish so we don't get confused —" Rita interrupted with another burst of rapid Spanish, and Kris spoke over her, _"Rita…Ritacita…lentamente, habla lentamente…"_

"So much for not getting confused," Joe said.

"She was praying to the Mother of Guadalupe to help her when they brought Frank in," Jamie said quietly. "She's saying there's no way Frank could've seen the junkyard. And the smelly vampires chased her, but she got to the cars, where the pirate found her, and she was safe, just like the angel said."

"Pirate?" Joe said. Frank, an angel. Joe could imagine his brother's expression over that one.

"The guy who brought her in," Ruth said. "That's what he looked like. Eye patch, gold tooth — he even had a skull and crossbones on his truck."

Joe breathed out his panic. How had Frank gotten out here? More important, why? Lido's was in the Castro; it was nowhere near here, as far as Joe knew. But then something else occurred to him. "Kris? She said vampire. Does she mean Vladimir?"

Rita shook her head hard. "_Eduardo…" _followed by another flood of Spanish, then Rita broke down again, sobbing against Joe.

Joe rocked her. It was after midnight; both children were exhausted and terrified past anything any kid should ever have to go through. "Easy, Ritacita, easy…"

"Vladi's _bad._" Emelio's face darkened with anger. "He's one of them!"

Edward, the kid who'd told Frank he wanted to be a vampire. So he was already playing the part? Or had he been put up to it by the Cabal?

Then Emelio's words sunk in. "One of them?" Joe said, but everyone else was staring at Rita. "I'm not going to like it, am I?"

"Ruth…Jamie…please?" Kris said slowly. "I'm not sure I heard it right. I really hope I didn't hear it right."

"Just from that, you did,_" _Ruth said. "She said the vampire lives inside Edward. When the vampire goes away, Edward gets hungry and has to eat. The bad men put Edward in the room with her and Frank. Frank's alone with the vampire."

Joe didn't want to ask, but…"What does she mean by 'eat'?"

Trembling, Rita buried her face against Joe's side.

"Rita," Joe said. "C'mon, honey, please. _No es tu culpa._ We need to know. If we're going to help Frank, we have to know."

"I can tell you," Emelio whispered. "They took Rita's blood. All the bad people did. They used a weird knife and they put it in a cup. Then they all drank it. They did that at the Farm, too."

Joe forced himself to breathe slow. His brother, his best friend…Frank was at the mercy of those people…and Thatcher…

…_Frank's staring, lifeless eyes…_

Breathe. _Breathe. _Freaking out was not an option, not with two frightened children huddled in his arms. But…the vampire went "inside" — possession. Rita and Emelio had asked if a vampire had hurt Joe, and Joe had called Thatcher a vampire. Edward had told Frank about being turned into one…and now Thatcher was still out there, possessing people, a demon out of the worst horror movies trying to find a suitable body…

…and Frank was…was…

The _something_ was kicking at the back of Joe's mind again. Blood, connections, him…Frank…

"Ruth, call the cops," Jamie said, and Joe nearly snapped at her, caught himself — how could she be so _calm?_ "What people do to themselves is their own business. But now it's kidnapping and assault, and we've got two witnesses right here." Jamie gripped Joe's shoulder; Joe felt calm settle around him. Wondering, he looked at her.

She met his gaze and nodded.

"Especially if we start talking People's Gate." Joe kept his voice low, not wanting to set the children off again; Rita's trembling had eased, her eyes closed. "Josh said the FBI was involved with that. That means SFPD shouldn't blow it off."

"That's what I've never understood about you, big brother," Kris muttered. "Your eternal trust in the system despite all experience otherwise."

"I'll get Sam on the horn." Ruth got to her feet and headed to the phone. "Keep talking to them. See what else you can get. The more we can give the cops, the better we'll be."

Joe waited until Ruth was busy, somehow got the words out. "Kris…_Thatcher's got Frank…"_

"And he's in the body of a teenage junkie," Kris said. "You think Frank can't hold his own against one skinny runaway?"

That pulled Joe up short. Put that way…

"Thatcher can't possibly have what he did in New Orleans, big brother. He hasn't been here that long. And he'll be limited to whatever Edward has in terms of Gift _and_ he'll be dealing with whatever drugs the kid's hooked on."

"Heroin," Jamie said, nodding. "He had all the signs." Her grip on Joe's shoulder tightened, warm, sympathetic, calming.

"Junk kills the Gifts," Kris said. "If he's going cold-turkey, that's even worse. I've got that from Rafe." Kris hesitated, then gripped Joe's shoulder herself. "I'm not putting you off, big brother. I'm really not. Frank's got a much better fighting chance than you did."

Joe was trying to panic, and these two kept insisting on talking sense. "Thatcher does have all that. People's Gate. Y'know, your vampire cult that's mostly dead?"

Well, that shut Kris up, anyway.

"And if that cult's involved —" But then Joe's brain finally kicked in, the corner that never stopped thinking and jumping ahead, "— wait. Tag, this isn't making sense. Edward's just a street kid. How'd Thatcher wind up with him? He was all the way in New Orleans. And how'd he get mixed up with People's Gate, or whoever these people are?"

"I believe I can answer that," said a quiet voice from the doorway to the reception area — Vladimir.

Rita shrieked; Emelio lunged to his feet, screaming. _ "Leave Joe alone! Leave us alone!"_

"Emelio, _no!"_ Joe grabbed the boy, wrestled him down.

Kris had thrust to her feet, swaying in front of Joe and the children. "Joe?"

"That's the tail," Joe said, struggling to keep Emelio back. "Emelio, _stop it!_"

"No!" Emelio yelled, squirming and fighting to get away. _"He gave Frank to the vampires!_ He's gonna give you to them, Joe!"

"I did," Vladimir said. "But I won't. Will you hear me out?"

Joe wrestled Emelio around, shook him until the boy stopped fighting. "Eme — Emelio — go with Jamie and Ruth. You, too, Rita."

Jamie said something in stern Spanish; Emelio scowled, but let Jamie pull him back. Emelio in tow, Jamie moved to the far side of the room; Ruth had hung up the phone, moved to get Rita, and Joe saw that Ruth had a gun holstered at her side, just as Kris did.

"_¡No!"_ Refusing to let go, Rita clung to Joe, screaming at Vladimir. _ "¡Frank es un ángel! ¡No puedes herirle, Satán! ¡El ángel protege él y mí y Eme!"_

"She's saying Frank's an angel," Kris murmured, "and Vladimir can't hurt you because the angel protects you."

No, Joe would never, ever, let Frank live this one down. "Rita…_es bien. _Go with Jamie." Joe tilted little Rita's head up so that he looked into her eyes. "I'll be okay, really. You believe in…in…the angel, right? Frank's stronger than any vampire."

Kris translated quietly; gulping, Rita hugged Joe hard, then fled to Jamie's side and clung there, staring wide-eyed at the adults.

"Frank's never going to live down this angel business," Kris muttered, as Joe braced himself to his feet with his crutch to stand beside her.

"Tell me about it," Joe said, but then faced Vladimir. "You've got some explaining to do."

"You make any move against us," Kris said, "and Joe'll wipe the floor with you."

"And that's after she gets done," Joe said, nodding at Kris.

"He tries hurting these kids, there won't be anything left to wipe the floor _with,"_ Ruth said. "Vampire or not, a .45'll leave some pretty big holes."

"She uses silver bullets," Jamie added.

Vladimir's mouth quirked. "That's werewolves, lovely one. But, point taken." His gaze rested on Joe. "Your brother ran after…Edward, you call him. The possessed one. The lure. He insisted on chasing the boy, and he was running right into a trap. I admit, I took advantage of that. I knocked him out, as I did with your roaring mouse here, and used him to win Eme's freedom. I am not proud of it."

"Liar!" Emelio yelled. "You're one of them!"

"Eme," Kris snapped back, "be still."

"Well?" Joe said to Vladimir. "I trust the kids. I don't trust you."

"May we sit? You and the roaring mouse look…pardon the expression…dead on your feet."

Joe and Kris glanced at each other; Kris gave him a palm-up shrug: _your call_. Up to him, then. Joe nodded, waited for Vladimir to sit, then eased to the floor himself, next to Kris.

"Who are you?" Joe rasped, then amended that. "_What_ are you? And what's so special about these kids?"

Vladimir hesitated, looked past Joe towards the children. "I would prefer if the children were not in the room, for their own protection. Please. Let the other women take them upstairs."

"Go on, Ruth," Kris said. "You and Jamie."

"Fair warning, I'm getting the other gun out for Jamie, and anything we don't recognize gets hot lead between the eyes," Ruth said grimly, and after a short, sharp exchange in Spanish, Emelio and Rita let themselves be ushered upstairs.

Vladimir waited until they were gone, then looked from Joe to Kris and back. "The shortest answer first," Vladimir said. "Rita and Emelio are the children of Saul Smith."

The name meant nothing to Joe, but Kris inhaled sharply. "The leader of People's Gate?"

Vladimir nodded.

"But you said they live with their mother here in the Point, that she's a…a…hooker," Joe said to Kris.

"They don't know," Vladimir said. "And Saul only knew of the boy, at first. Their mother never connected the man she knew with People's Gate until recently, when he forced the issue." Vladimir fell silent for a long moment. "Saul left her before she knew she was pregnant again. He knew true magic. He went away to Oxford and found a teacher there —"

Oh no. "Orrin Thatcher," Joe said, and Vladimir nodded.

"So…the student heard of his master's death and decided to help him out," Kris muttered. "That doesn't explain Edward, though."

"I'm guessing that Saul wasn't dumb enough to let a serial killer take over his body," Joe said. "So he took what he could get. Someone Gifted, who wouldn't be missed, like a runaway. Someone he could lure in."

Vladimir nodded again. "Saul was fascinated by Thatcher's research, and he took it further. Much further." Vladimir looked away. "Call me…a bodyguard."

"Oh, swell," Joe said. "And you want us to trust you."

"He erred," Vladimir said. "Saul wanted someone bound to him, bound by blood, will, and magic. Instead…I am bound to his bloodline. He did not realize that part until he tried to have the children and their mother slain with the others."

"Slain?" Kris said…then her hands went to her mouth. "Oh my god."

…_You share blood, DNA…you're saying someone can use me against Joe…can, and has…_

"Saul found out about Eme's Blessing and about Rita," Vladimir said. "He pretended he wanted to reconcile. To 'save' them. He invited them down to the Gate's land in Milpitas for a visit, and…well."

"He didn't want anyone to know," Joe said, sick, seeing where this was going. "He didn't want to chance someone using them against him. He didn't want it getting out that he'd loved a hooker, that she'd had kids from him…"

"_A voice was heard in Ramah,"_ Kris murmured, head in her hands, _"Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they were not."_

Joe recognized the quote: King Herod, the slaughter of the innocents. Covering up the murder of one by murdering many…

"Eme and Rita stopped coming around about a month before you and Frank got here. Eme was all excited about getting to stay on a real farm with horses and everything, but then they came back…right when the Gate thing broke." Kris's voice failed. She bowed her head. "I didn't connect it, and I should have. I should've seen it."

"Tag, that's not helping." Joe shook her shoulder. "Focus on now."

"I got them out just before it went down," Vladimir said. "I moved them to the Point. I thought the nature of the ghetto would keep the children safely anonymous." His face darkened. "Whether he killed everyone to hide the murder of their mother and Rita…I do not know. I do know the one you call Edward was there, as well."

"But Saul found them," Joe said. So Edward had been another survivor of the Gate's mass suicide.

Vladimir nodded. "The possessed one — the being inside convinced Saul to let the children live, to use them as a bargaining chip. To leave them alive on the condition that they never be told who their father was, and to use them in exchange for you and your brother. He'd connected the little white-knight mouse," Vladimir nodded at Kris, "with the kids because of Wings, and that somehow you were connected to her, as well."

"Oh, just great," Joe said. "So…what? You came in here to convince me to give myself up?"

"Yes," Vladimir said.


	43. The Angels are Here

Rita huddled in the back seat of the Pinto. There had been a lot of yelling and arguing from the adults, especially between Hawk and Joe. Rita hadn't understood that part, and Hawk had been upset to the point of tears. The shelter lady, Ruth, and the nice artist lady, Jamie, had herded Rita and Emelio to the office upstairs, but they'd gone running when shouts erupted, and Rita and Eme had crept back to the stairs to listen and watch.

More grim-faced adults had come in, some of whom had gotten really mad at Joe, but Rita could've told them that arguing with angels was stupid. But after all the yelling, Rita and Eme were now in Jamie's Pinto, because Rita had to guide them to where the smelly men were.

Joe had gone with the bad man, Vladimir. Rita had cried, both she and Eme had begged, but Joe still went. And now Rita and Eme had to wait here with the nice artist lady Jamie. She'd parked near the junkyard, had scowled at Joe and the others as they'd left.

"First sign of _anything_, I'm out of here," Jamie had said. "You idiot heroes can _walk_ home."

"You're the only one showin' sense, darlin'," said Joshua. Rita was scared of him. He was bright and colorful and Rita knew he wouldn't hurt her or Eme, but there was death all around him. Rita could feel it.

Rita had also seen Joe watching the nice artist lady, Jamie. Maybe she should tell the nice artist lady that Joe's brother was really an angel. Artists liked painting angels. Rita had seen that at church, all the pictures of angels and saints and Mother Guadalupe.

Wait…if Frank was an angel, did that mean Joe was an angel, too? Rita wasn't sure. Since God made them all, maybe all angels were brothers. Mama had made Rita and Eme, and that meant they were brother and sister, after all. Maybe that was why Jamie kept smiling back at Joe, if she could see Joe was an angel.

But now Rita and Eme were stuck here. Jamie had turned the radio on, soft and low, one of the Spanish stations, but Rita pressed her face up against the car window, peering through the night.

"It's okay," Jamie said quietly — she spoke Spanish really good, almost as good as Mama. "They'll come back. You two go to sleep. I'll keep watch. No one will hurt you."

Sleep, while Joe was out with That Face? Rita scowled. Joe was out there because his brother the angel was in trouble because of Rita and Eme. That Face was Death, and Joe was with him.

Jamie had relaxed back in the driver's seat, her gaze fixed on the field and the buildings barely visibly out there.

"Eme," Rita whispered. "They'll die. Joe will die. The _angel_ will die! We can't let them!"

"They won't," Emelio whispered back. "Hawk's with them. And those other people. You heard Hawk."

"But they can't…" Rita glanced quickly at Jamie, who wasn't paying any attention to them; Jamie was still staring intently out the window,"…they can't do what we can."

Emelio bit his lip, glanced at Jamie.

"Mama says the Guadalupe Lady's blessed us," Rita said stubbornly. "Which means we have to help Her angel. She sent the angel to help us, and he got us both free. We have to help him!"

"They've got help," Jamie said gently, and both Rita and Emelio startled. "Believe me, little ones, Joshua and Uncle Harold know what they're doing."

Jamie was a nice artist lady, but she wasn't sure she believed what she was saying. Rita could tell. It was part of the Blessing from the Mother of Guadalupe, so Rita was sure. Just like she'd tried to tell Mama that the Elvis-man hadn't meant what he was promising, but Mama and Eme hadn't listened. Mama had wanted to believe too badly, and Eme had been too excited over going on a real vacation like the white folks did on TV. That man had wanted Eme really badly, too, something to do with Eme's Blessing, though he hadn't cared about Rita's at all.

Eme touched Rita's hand, his face scrunched in a scowl of concentration. _:What can we do? Those people hurt us before, and we couldn't do anything.: _The scowl deepened; it was hard, talking like this in their heads, though touching made it a little easier. _:You're just a baby. They'll hurt you again.:_

Frank had called her brave. He'd called her a little lion. The _angel_ had believed in her! _:I'm not a baby! I'm not! I won't let them kill the angels!:_

Life always hurt. Rita knew that. It wouldn't stop hurting just because you were scared. The nice people at the shelter tried to make it stop hurting; they tried to help Rita and Eme not be scared. Maybe that was why the Mother of Guadalupe had sent the angels to the shelter.

Rita pulled her hand away. Decision made. She squeezed between the seats, squirmed up to the front; Jamie glanced at her, but Rita looked up with wide, pathetic eyes, curled against the nice artist lady despite the gear shift in the way.

"I know, kiddo." Jamie wrapped her arms around Rita as best she could, just as Joe had done. "We're all scared. They'll be okay. They really will."

The Guadalupe Mother probably wouldn't like Rita using her Blessing like this, but this was important. Rita and Eme had figured out how to do this on their own, to help Mama sleep whenever she'd been drinking too hard with her men. Rita closed her eyes, humming a lullaby she'd heard on Sesame Street…

"Rita," Eme whispered, and nudged her.

Rita looked up: Jamie was asleep.

Slowly, carefully, Rita slipped out of Jamie's arms, as Emelio opened the car door as quietly as he could. It creaked a little, but Jamie didn't stir.

Then Rita and Eme were running and stumbling across the weed-ridden field, towards the faint lights near the Bay. Rita wouldn't let the angels die, she wouldn't, she wouldn't…


	44. Bad Moon Rising

_**A/N: with this chapter, the tale catches up to where I dropped off the face of the earth the last time - plus a bit more. Thanks to Caranath, ChrisDaughterOfApollo, Xenithia, & DuffyBarkley for the reviews & PMs! Enjoy your Friday treat!**_

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He would not freak. He would not panic.

Dizzy, nauseous, Frank lay curled on the concrete, drifting in and out of consciousness. It hadn't been that much blood, less than a pint. He kept telling himself that. He shouldn't be this exhausted, not to the point of drifting off whenever his attention lapsed, not so that he fought against nightmares every time he closed his eyes. The cuts, the slices, the pain had been nothing, compared to what Joe had gone through.

Not that Frank could convince his gut of that.

He had no idea how much time had passed. They'd untied him when it was over and thrown him against the wall and left him there, their sated expressions terrifying in their mundanity as they'd filed out.

"_Hold still, meat," the Elvis-lookalike had breathed in Frank's ear; the breath stank of Scope. He'd yanked Frank's head back as the sharp metal had sliced into Frank's skin. "Unless you want that blade to slip."_

Frank jerked back awake. Stop. Breathe. He hadn't been hurt much, not yet; they'd even swabbed the cuts and the lancet with rubbing alcohol. "Yet" was the key word. Frank had seen their faces; he could identify them. They couldn't afford to let him go.

He pushed himself up to sit, breathed through the surge of nausea the movement brought, and studied the room's other occupant.

They'd left Edward in here with him.

Frank couldn't figure that out. The teen huddled in the far corner, watching Frank with those odd amber eyes — amber, not the all-black, all-pupil weirdness. Why leave him here? It implied that Edward was a prisoner as Frank was, but that made no sense, given that Edward seemed to be a willing participant in all this.

"Well, great, you're a vampire now," Frank said, breaking the silence. "Doesn't look like you're any better off, though."

Edward looked away.

Fine. Frank braced himself to his feet, swayed dizzily; he closed his eyes and waited for this stomach to settle, then walked the room's perimeter, careful to stay out of Edward's immediate reach. Door, locked and hinges on the other side: so much for simply prying the hinges out. No means to block it shut, either. From the rust marks and scratches on the jamb, it looked as if they'd re-hung the door. However, it was a standard, cheap office door that one would find in any warehouse. Frank scowled, studying it. He could break the door down with a few strong kicks, but that would be noisy, and without knowing what or who was on the other side, it was chancy, at best.

Frank filed it away as potentially useful. Window, definitely out of reach, even when he tried jumping for it, though the effort made his head spin. He almost caught the edge of it, but there wasn't enough ledge for him to grab. "So why'd they leave you back here?"

Silence.

Realization dawned. "They don't trust you. So you're not one of them, after all." Frank nodded slowly. "That would make sense. They're just using you."

"Shut up," Edward said.

Frank turned to study the rest of the room. There were two possibilities for what was happening with this kid. The first, that Edward had "read" Joe, was now looking unlikely, despite how badly Frank wanted it to be the case. The second: Edward was being possessed. Rita's statement about the "vampire goes inside", the all-pupil eyes, the British accent and the taunting remarks about New Orleans — though if it was Thatcher, why this kid? Why here? And _how?_

…_if I had known how events would fall out, I would not have been so rough on your brother…_

Dad had found that Thatcher had terminal cancer, something that Frank had overheard while Joe had still been in the NOLA hospital. If…if possession was possible…and if Frank had been a fat old guy dying of cancer…wouldn't he want to have a young, healthy body?

Three guesses, then, what Joe would "do" for.

Though that left the question of why they wanted Frank. Somehow, Frank didn't think it was to be a food source for delusional vampire wanna-be's.

"So Tac doesn't want you, after all." Frank kept his gaze focused on the window. Full dark out there, save for faint lights. It had to be after midnight. "He's just using you. He really wants Joe."

"_I said shut up!"_

"Or what? Or you'll _bite me? _Yeah. I'm really scared of that."

Edward buried his head in his arms.

Unexpected sympathy rose. Frank swallowed it down. Two children — that little girl — had been terrorized, beaten, and abused because of Edward. From what Rita had said, it hadn't all been "Tac's" doing, either. "Or maybe you'll bring Tac back. Go ahead. That'll let me beat the crap out of him…though he won't feel it. You'll be the one getting the bruises."

His head still buried in his arms, Edward was whispering, whispering that peaked with choked sobs. It sounded desperate, pleading.

"You know what Tac will do when he gets Joe. You're disposable. Street trash." Frank paused, let those words sink in. "Really sucks to be you, doesn't it?"

But then Edward raised his head.

Frank went still.

"Well?" Schooled British accent, the all-black, all-pupil eyes. "I believe you wanted to…what was that lovely phrase…beat the crap out of me. I'm waiting."

Frank couldn't deny it, not with those eyes staring him down. No one could fake that physical reaction. It couldn't be drugs. There wasn't any way Edward could've hidden a needle or a bottle here.

"You won't, though," Edward — no, _Thatcher_ — said, smiling. "You and your brother suffer from that nonsense called 'chivalry'. Oh, Frank…Frank…" The smile widened, showing teeth. "It truly sucks to be you."

The door slammed open.

Frank fell back against the wall and backed into a corner as the others came into the room.

"Take him." Edward/Thatcher was on his feet, swaying. "Bind his legs and bring him."

An uncertain glance went around the men, then one lunged for Frank.

Frank assisted that one into the wall with a sickening crunch, slammed his foot into the second's knee and felt the bone snap — but then the rest were on him, bearing Frank stomach-down against the concrete, pinning him and cuffing his hands behind his back despite his struggling. Someone grabbed his ankles, wrapping them in tight clothesline.

"He broke Marty's leg!" another said.

"Vengeance will be ours," said the Elvis-wannabe who had directed the blood-letting earlier, the one stinking of Scope. "Take him out. I'll handle Martin."

They hauled Frank up. Wild with terror, Frank fought, twisting, biting, and kicking, as they carried him through the warehouse, through another door…

…outside.

The cold night air slapped Frank's face. Calm. He had to calm down. Frank forced himself to breathe slow and deep. It was nothing like what had been in New Orleans. No barrels, no stink of rotting meat and formaldehyde, no greasy electric feel to the air. Just the smell of dead fish and rotting algae, the sound of boats out on the Bay and the lapping of water, the only light from a security light on the nearby building. A cold breeze blew in, swirling dust-devils through the stark puddle of sickly yellow light to vanish into the weed-filled dark.

Weeds, grass, mounds of gravel, and chunks of concrete ringed the space: what looked like the remains of a concrete foundation. Frank's breath caught. Marked in colored chalk was a large double-circle, with votive candles in mason jars marking the quarter points. Odd script-lettering ringed the border; in the center, a smaller circle set with a triangle inside.

Rafe had been bound inside that same design in New Orleans. Kris and Joshua had freaked over it; Kris had said something…something about summoning…

Frank glanced at Edward/Thatcher, then back at the circle. Possession, evil spirits, vampires…summoning…into Rafe, maybe?

And Thatcher now wanted Joe.

Edward/Thatcher was watching Frank…and smiling.

Stop. _Stop._ Fear was part of the power trip. Frank was not going to play into it. "Wow," Frank said, carefully unimpressed, "talk about slumming. Who taught you the ghetto Golden Dawn, Jimmie Walker?"

"Oh, you recognize it!" Hearing that delighted British accent — Thatcher's inflection, Thatcher's wording — in that teenage junkie's reedy voice… "You have learned. You were such a skeptic in New Orleans. It made you and your brother a delicious challenge."

"Great," Frank said, to no one in particular, "a boy hooker calls me delicious. I'm definitely not in that market, Ed —" His words cut off with a gasp, as one of the men backhanded him.

"Put him there," Edward/Thatcher said, nodding.

Frank glanced — and froze in sudden, overwhelming terror.

Set within the larger chalk circle, at the border of the smaller, a small stack of concrete blocks, arranged as if a table…or…or…

They dragged Frank over, forced him to kneel chest-down over it, his head and chest resting on the blocks. Somewhere behind Frank, someone gasped. "But that's…that's not…"

"_Shh!"_

"Not so mouthy now, are you?" The Elvis-hair who'd called him _meat_, who'd taunted Frank all through the blood-drinking, now squatted within Frank's line of sight.

With a jolt, Frank finally realized where he'd seen the man — he'd been on the front page that morning. "People's Gate," Frank said, struggling to keep his voice even.

The man looked up, past Frank.

"I did say he was rather intelligent," Edward/Thatcher said. "Frank, may I introduce you to Saul Smith, the Beloved Father of the People's Gate?"

"Some father," Frank spat at the man, "when you kill all your followers."

"I killed no one," Saul said. "By their own hands they proved their faith."

"Yeah, right, you had armed guards —" Frank choked off as Saul laid down a heavy, thick machete — one side sharpened to a glistening edge — right in front of Frank's face.

He was pushing the man to rash action, Frank knew it. Dizzy with terror and uncertainty, his breath came in fast, shallow gulps, his heart pounding. End it quick, before…before…The memory of Joe in the NOLA warehouse hung before Frank's eyes. Frank didn't want to be…not that…tortured…mutilated…crippled…

…_alive?_ something deep in his gut whispered.

"They chose to give themselves to the glory of God." Saul toyed with the hilt of the machete, picked it back up, ran his thumb along the edge.

"Those dead kids didn't choose that," Frank said. Keep calm. Keep talking. Delay them any way he could. "What'd you do? Make their mommies hold them down while they were screaming?"

Another gasp behind him, more murmuring. "Saul, man, you said the kids went free," someone said.

"They are free, safe in the arms of the Lord," Saul said. "Their parents chose, as Abraham to Isaac on Moriah. The Lord will raise His faithful servants and bless those obedient to His will."

"God stopped Abraham before it got that far," Frank snapped. "You forgot that part."

"Oh, he hasn't forgotten anything, I assure you," Edward/Thatcher said.

"What I can't figure out," Frank said, over top of him, "is why you decided that this little junkie was worth listening to, Saul. I didn't think anyone was _that_ stupid."

Keep them talking, that was crucial; get the doubt planted. People like this usually felt the need to justify themselves, obsessively so — especially with a group of followers watching, followers now questioning what was going on. Especially if some of those followers were new, or hangers-on like the Cabal, as Vladimir had implied.

Little Rita would make it back to Wings, Frank had to believe that. These idiots hadn't found her. She'd get the calvary. Frank had to keep them talking. Keep them distracted.

Saul hefted the machete, then brought it down, slow and precise, until the razor edge rested against Frank's neck. "Get thee behind me, Satan," Saul whispered.

"You missed an important point," Edward/Thatcher said. "Saul is one of my pupils from Oxford. A rather distinguished research fellowship for such an enlightened young man."

Oh God. Something no one had thought to look for. Dad had been after motives; Joshua, Kris, and the others at NOLA Center had only worried about getting rid of the magic worked on Joe. No one had thought to check if Thatcher had another protégé besides Claire. "Yeah," Frank managed. "Killing people for kicks is really enlightened."

"I must admit, I am impressed, Frank," Edward/Thatcher said, as if Frank hadn't spoken. "Here you are on the literal chopping block, and you still ask questions. Most impressive."

Behind Saul, two of the Gate people stood within Frank's field of vision; they stared at Saul, at Frank, at the machete, then glanced at each other and towards the weeds, sidling back in small shuffling steps. So they had no problem drinking blood, but freaked at any suggestion of anything else. Not that Frank was complaining.

"Yeah, this is what your precious _Father_ teamed up with," Frank said to them. "Assuming the junkie isn't just lying to get attention. The New Orleans killer. Someone who killed _kids…"_

"I did no such thing," Edward/Thatcher said.

"I was there," Frank said, watching the two behind Saul. "I saw what you did —" Frank's breath hissed in, as the machete blade pressed down.

"You really don't know when to shut up," Saul said.

"Let him talk," Edward/Thatcher said. "You see, I have questions, too. Questions that you will answer, my boy. If you prefer staying in one piece, that is."

"Look, man," one of the others said, scuffing at the ground, "this is kinda going too far. That little girl might bring the cops…"

"Those of the streets have no trust in the Man," Saul said. "Have faith, my children. We are protected, and the Lord hath provided this lamb in place of your sins."

"Likely she will run to the shelter." Edward/Thatcher walked around Frank, studying, assessing. "I have no doubt that Frank told her to get his brother. Or maybe that little mouse." Another smile widened his voice. "I certainly hope so, anyway. Now. About that mouse. The ones who helped you. Who are they? They are not police. They're too knowledgeable to have been mere bodyguards for those musicians."

The machete blade slid against the back of Frank's neck.

Beyond Saul, beyond the Gate followers behind him, someone else stood just beyond the reach of the light, fading in and out of the darkness. Frank tried to focus, caught a glimpse of white, as if bone.

…_maybe I'll see you later…_

"Go ahead, Saul." Frank closed his eyes, not wanting to see any more, not wanting to know when. "Then you won't get any answers."

"Oh, but I never said we would start there." Edward/Thatcher's voice was behind him…and Frank felt the teen lift his bound hands and feel out the fingers. "Well, Saul? One joint at a time should do the trick, as you say here."

"Definitely," Saul said. "Rose?"

A woman knelt in front of the concrete table — the one in black robes with the priest's collar. Her face was exalted, her eyes fixed on something above Frank's head. She laid something in front of his face with a metallic click.

Garden shears.

"Well?" Edward/Thatcher said.

…_there's no harm in telling this man anything you've learned…_

"They were bodyguards." Voice shaking, Frank forced the words out. "Special ones, because Karma was Gifted." Frank wasn't revealing anything with that; Thatcher knew that already. "They call themselves Blades. They work for the Association."

Edward/Thatcher picked the shears up, turning them, studying them as if fascinated…then slid the blades under the collar of Frank's sweatshirt. The cloth yanked against Frank's throat, then ripped as the shears cut the sweatshirt away.

"Go on," Saul said. "Keep talking. What's the Association?"

The heroes on TV always refused to talk, always laughed in the face of torture. Somehow TV left out the terror, the pain, the blood. But then something occurred to Frank, something Joshua had said that Frank hadn't understood at the time. "I — I thought you knew. Thatcher got someone into the Blades in New Orleans — he replaced one of their people. That's how he kidnapped Karma."

Saul scowled. Frank couldn't see Edward/Thatcher's face.

"Did I?" Edward/Thatcher said. "Claire was only infiltrating their bodyguards, from what I knew. No, continue, Frank. Did your followers save any of that cup, Saul? Or will I have to obtain fresh blood for the markings?"

Saul smiled. "Fresh."

The concrete blocks were rough and cold; the wind chilled his bare skin. Frank couldn't stop shivering. "It's…it's a secret organization…I mean…I…"

Saul pulled a rubber tourniquet out of his pocket and passed it above Frank's head. Frank felt it being wrapped and tightened around his left arm, above the wrist.

"A secret organization of what?" Edward/Thatcher said.

"Of…of Gifted…"

Frank's hand had gone numb. He was dizzy, panting, terrified. The woman in black brought the cup over, handed it to Saul. There was another scrape, then sharp metal edges touched Frank's index finger, moving, positioning just so…

"Do go on," Edward/Thatcher murmured. "Don't mind me."

Suddenly, a cry of pain, then gasps from somewhere behind Frank, then…

"You know," said a calm, steady voice — Vladimir, "he could answer you much better if he had help."

The pressure on Frank's hand vanished; Saul rounded. Somehow Frank twisted, just enough to see.

Vladimir stood at the boundary of the concrete, at the edge of the light and darkness. At his feet, kneeling with hands bound and head bowed, swaying as if barely conscious…

…Joe.

Frank moaned, despairing. This couldn't be happening — Joe couldn't be…he'd been at the Center. How could he —

"You have impeccable timing," Thatcher/Edward said. "Bring him here, if you would, please."

Head cocked, Vladimir crossed his arms, didn't move. "I believe I am owed the other child."

"She is safe," Thatcher/Edward said. "We'll bring her out when we're done here."

"I know what your word is worth." Vladimir shifted so that he stood in front of Joe; Frank saw the gun holstered at the man's hip. "As I know the value of mine. Honor your bargain, _diavol."_

Dizzy, his heart pounding, Frank opened his mouth, about to say Rita escaped — wait. Maybe if Vladimir believed he was being cheated — get all the bad guys working against each other…but…what was all the nonsense about a bargain? It all had the sound of Faust, but Vladimir didn't strike Frank as demonic. But there was something…something in all the tales Tag had told them over the years…about faeries, bargains, and promises…

"The brat escaped," Saul said suddenly. "Don't look at me like that, Vlad, you know I'm telling the truth. Do as my friend says."

"And how did she manage that?" Vladimir said, his hand on Joe's shoulder. "You're asking me to believe that a small child outwitted you, Saul? I would say that nullifies our bargain, as far as this one goes."

"I don't care what you believe," Saul snapped, but Frank found his voice at that point as an idea burst in, desperate chance, desperate hope.

"I got her out," Frank said. "I lifted her through the window and told her where to run —" His voice choked off, as Edward/Thatcher yanked Frank's head back and laid the blades of the shears against his throat.

"Your contribution was not asked for," Thatcher said.

"There," Saul said to Vladimir. "You see? There's no reason _he'd_ lie for us."

"No," Vladimir said. "But it seems, then, that my bargain is now with that one, instead of you. And that I now owe him a rather large debt. No —" Vladimir's voice sharpened, and Saul froze, "don't try that, Saul. You know what I can do, I'm armed, and I am far faster than either you or your _diavol._ Well, then." Back to the pleasant, calm tone; Vladimir cocked his head, his hand still on Joe's shoulder. "Shall we say…an exchange?"

"_No!" _Frank choked.

"That one is useless to you," Vladimir went on. "This is the one you truly want, and we both know it."

"Perhaps," said Edward/Thatcher, and the shears pressed in. "But let's just say this one owes _me_ a rather large debt."

At that, Frank started struggling, only to be held still, weight pressing him hard against the cold concrete blocks.

Then…

Joe raised his head, his gaze fixed on Frank — and very slowly, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.

Frank stared back, not understanding. Joe couldn't seriously be thinking…

"Stop it, Vladimir," Joe rasped, and to Frank's further shock, Joe struggled to stand up — and Vladimir undid the bonds on Joe's hands and let Joe use him for support. "He's not stupid. We both know what he really wants."

"Now the truth reveals itself." Edward/Thatcher sounded amused. "And what is that?"

"That body's wearing out," Joe said. "Edward's hooked on heroin — it's ruined the kid's Gift. Just like what happened with your old body. It wore out, too. Cancer. I've seen what that does, and the treatments are worse than the disease. Nothing you did stopped it from happening. So you hit upon a better plan. Find a new body."

Silence.

Joe stood unmoving, gaze fixed on Thatcher. "And that didn't work, either. Everyone you tried died — they fought you, and the fight destroyed their bodies. That's what you were doing with Rafe. You were trying to break his shields, but that wouldn't have worked either. You would've destroyed his body, too, just like you did all the others."

"You're very clever," Edward/Thatcher said.

"You got lucky with that kid." Joe nodded at him. "Saul tricked him, gave the kid what he thought he wanted, becoming a vampire and everything. That's the key. That's what you need, someone willing to let you in. So Edward gave you that, and you had a body that wasn't destroyed when you took over. Just one problem — the kid's still there. And he's still in control, and he's hooked deep on heroin."

"Really."

"Really," Joe said. "But now you've got something I want. And I've got something you want, and I'll give it to you, willingly. If we can come to an agreement, that is."

"Joe, _no,"_ Frank whispered.

"Perhaps," Edward/Thatcher said. "Just what is that you offer?"

"Me," Joe said.


	45. Only the Good Die Young

_**A/N: Thanks to ChrisDaughterOfApollo, Caranath, DuffyBarkley, & Xenithia for the PMs & reviews! Posting a little early for Saturday...**_

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Seeing Frank half-stripped and bound against the concrete blocks…

Joe's breath came short, every muscle tight and tense. But he had to act calm, cool, in control, his voice pitched low to stop it from shaking, one hand clenched on Vladimir's shoulder and the other clenched in a fist to conceal the trembling. Joe had to be insane…but…it had to be done. It was the only way he could see clear, the only way to save both Frank and the other kid trapped in this mess.

The only way to take out Thatcher, permanently.

He hadn't discussed this with Joshua or Kris or any of the others; the yelling match at Wings had been vehement and panicky enough as it was. The plan had only been for Vladimir's bluff to hold as long as it took to get his hands on Frank and get him clear of the line of fire, but the Blades' plan hadn't covered how to handle Thatcher or rescue Edward. Joe had seen Kris and Joshua exchange looks, and Joe had suspected there'd been something they weren't saying. Well, three could play that game.

"You expect me to believe that?" Edward/Thatcher said: that young, reedy voice, that cultured, precise British accent. "You, giving yourself to to the one who gave you all those scars?"

"Shove it," Joe rasped, and suddenly the anger, the pain, the bitterness of the last couple months, all poured out. "It's not like my life's worth it. You took my voice, you crippled me — I've got a father who keeps trying to shove me out of sight so he's not reminded how much he failed, an aunt who treats me like a retarded child, and my so-called_ friends…"_ His voice broke. Joe breathed out, fought his anger under control. If he was angry, he couldn't be scared. "I'm nothing but _useless_. And don't get me started on _big brother_ there. No, you want it, you can have it."

_Would you like to know who this hole's supposed to be for?_

Oh, Joe knew now who it'd been for. He should've guessed. It'd never been for Frank.

Frank had raised his head, staring at Joe in open shock.

…_Frank's lifeless face…_

"And yet," Thatcher said, "you want your brother free."

"I don't _want_ anything," Joe shot back. "But I'll get it even worse from everyone, about how I let my brother die and why couldn't it have been me, since I'm so _useless_. You really think I came out here because I enjoy being with _big brother_ so much?"

Joe didn't dare do more than glance at his brother, at that shocked, stricken expression. Please, God, let Frank have heard, let him have understood…

Now Thatcher/Edward moved forward. Seeing the completely-black eyes and the leering, greedy expression on that young face was unnerving, but Joe only waited.

"Drop your shields," that young face said.

"Not until you let Frank go," Joe rasped. "I know what your promises are worth, too, _Thatcher."_

There. Joe used the name. He'd admitted it, finally, to himself. Thatcher was still alive, was right here in front of him, was…was… Overwhelming fear mewled up, and Joe clenched Vladimir's shoulder, just to stay upright. He'd left his crutch in Jamie's car; he carried nothing that could be construed as a weapon. But now…oh dear God…Joe struggled to keep control, to stay conscious and aware as the nightmare closed in…he couldn't be doing this, he had to be insane…

No other choice. He had to.

"You are not one to speak of bargains," Thatcher said. "Both you and your brother are prisoners. You are hardly in a position to discuss terms."

"Joe is no prisoner of yours," Vladimir said. "He bargained. I agreed. And now I find that his brother freed my other charge, so the remainder of my bargain with you and Saul is null, _diavol, _and _he_ is the one who is owed. I have no reason to give you this one, now that I have what I want." Vladimir paused. "I'd listen to him."

Words, that was all this was, fast talk to keep Thatcher and Saul distracted. Somewhere out in the darkness, Joe was probably getting cussed out in Creole, Spanish, Navajo, and English with the creativity only a former Army sergeant commanded. But right now, Joe had to end this fast, before someone realized what game was being played. "Forget it, Vlad. I should've known — I'm useless even for _that_. Let's go. He can have _big brother_ there."

Vladimir raised an eyebrow. "The _diavol_ doesn't want an un-Gifted body."

"Like I care." Now mix in the truth with a calm, cold taunt. "He'll be trapped in that body, he won't be able to leave, and he'll die there. That's all I care about." Keep it cool. Play like Paul Newman in _The Sting. _Joe started to turn away. "Let's go. Boudin's is still open, and I'm starved."

"You misunderstood me," Thatcher/Edward said, and nodded at Saul. With the help of another man, Saul hauled Frank to his feet and dragged him over — Frank's face was ashen.

"I don't believe you've been introduced to my associate," Thatcher/Edward said, nodding; something about his voice caught Joe's attention, a slight tremor, a touch too breathy, "Saul Smith, the father of People's Gate."

"Charmed," Joe said. The man didn't impress him: an oily Elvis look-a-like, minus the glittery jumpsuit.

"Joe, don't do this," Frank said. "You can't seriously believe —"

Saul yanked his head back, pressed what looked like garden shears against Frank's throat. "No one asked you."

Joe held himself still. Now wasn't the time to go nuclear. Not yet. "Vlad, get _big brother_ out of here."

"Not so fast, Joseph," Thatcher/Edward said, and Vlad halted. "I need a guarantee that you will keep your end of the bargain."

"Not like I can run away," Joe said. Without Vladimir's support, standing was quickly becoming torture.

"Oh, no, not at all," Thatcher/Edward agreed. "But you can hold your shields up — you have learned, haven't you? You weren't nearly so troublesome in New Orleans. I want a guarantee that you'll follow through to the end, as it were, after your brother is 'safe'."

Joe heard the slight emphasis on that last word. He said nothing, only waited.

"A blood guarantee, as it were." Thatcher/Edward pulled out a penknife — nothing that could do much damage, if Joe were to grab it — and sliced a gash at the base of his thumb, letting the blood drip freely to the rough concrete and gravel. Then he held the knife out to Joe.

Nothing in what Kris had said covered this, but it wasn't hard to guess. "That's not your blood, Thatcher. Kind of a one-sided bargain."

"My blood was spilled in plenty by your elder brother there," Thatcher/Edward said. Was it Joe's imagination, or did that young voice sound tired? "But I take your meaning. Perhaps you would accept the blood of my protégé in its place."

"Your protégé," Joe said, glancing at Saul. "Like Claire, you mean? What happened to her, by the way? I mean, you're here, and she's not. You seem to play pretty rough with your students."

Thatcher/Edward didn't seem upset by the dig. "I wasn't in any condition to notice. Now. A guarantee, if you would."

"It's still not your blood." Joe was trying to stall, trying to remember all the tales, all the half-remembered stories…don't panic, don't panic…

"We can banter back and forth all night if you wish," Thatcher/Edward said — no, not Joe's imagination; Thatcher sounded as if speaking was an effort. "Of course, my protégé is rather impatient and he is the one holding those garden shears in that uncomfortable position against your brother's neck."

"Don't, Joe," Vladimir said. "They're up to something."

Thank you, Mr. Obvious. But Joe was up to something, too, and if it was Saul's blood, that should bind him to the bargain. Maybe. With a deep breath, Joe nodded at Saul. "Him first."

Saul handed the shears to Thatcher/Edward, slashed his own palm with the penknife before offering it hilt-first to Joe.

Joe glanced past Saul. No telling where Joshua or Kris or the others were. But Joe staggered forward, close to Thatcher/Edward - and, hopefully, in the line of fire. The Blades wouldn't be able to fire at Edward without hitting Joe.

Scowling, arms crossed, Vladimir only watched Joe. There was something in that gaze, some warning, something…

Not looking at Frank, Joe took the small knife, sliced the base of his left thumb, drawing blood. Left hand, the shattered one, the one Thatcher had broken…

"Joe, _don't,"_ Frank said. "If you're trying to save Edward —"

"Shut up," Joe snapped. "You just don't want anyone thinking you're at fault. I saw through you a long time ago, _big brother."_

Frank stared, then something in his face…died. "Fine," Frank spat. "Enjoy your…bargain."

_Brother, please be acting, you're not that stupid._ Joe turned away. "You're really hysterical. You should go on TV with that act._"_

Saul held his bleeding hand out, waiting. Joe hesitated, then grasped it, wincing when Saul made sure the slashes touched. Something thrummed all through Joe's arm as if he'd grabbed a live wire, then a sickening plunge of vertigo. Joe swayed, caught himself, forced himself to still.

"The _diavol_ has not named you in the magic, Saul," Vladimir said.

Scowling, Saul glanced at Thatcher/Edward; the teen's expression didn't change at all from the pleasant smile. "I was getting to that," Thatcher said, and laid his own bleeding hand on Saul's shoulder. "Saul speaks for me in this. I swear that."

"There," Saul said. "Now you, boy. Drop your shields."

But then Vladimir moved in, grabbed Joe's and Saul's hands, and held them together; the thrumming increased painfully. "You have forgotten the most important part."

Saul's face twisted. _"Traitor!"_

"I betray no one," Vladimir said coldly. "I have bargain and debt with these brothers, yes, but I am still bound to _your_ bloodline, all of it, no matter how much I wish otherwise. Speak your terms, both of you." Vladimir paused. "Unless you wish to hand him an open-ended bargain with no limits on it, of course."

The warning hadn't been meant for Saul, Joe was certain. He was dizzy, trying to think…

"You'll drop your shields," Saul said, each word grating out. His grip was sweaty. "You won't fight. You won't resist. You'll give my teacher that body, of your own free will. You'll relinquish all claim to it, and it'll become his and only his, as long as he lives."

…all those spooky tales that Tag had chattered about over the years, all the tales Gramma and Mom had told Joe and Frank as kids…_be careful what you promise…_

"I will." It came out even enough. But Joe didn't let go, as Saul tried to pull away. "And _you_ will let my brother go. You won't hurt him. You'll leave him be." Vladimir's grip on their joined hands tightened, and Joe glanced — something in Vladimir's gaze warned him, _not enough._

"Is that all?" Saul said. "Gladly —"

"And by _you_," Joe cut him off, "I mean you, Saul, and that being that calls itself Orrin Thatcher, and your people — People's Gate. All of you."

Oh, the look on Saul's face. "Agreed."

"Well," Thatcher/Edward said, still smiling; he didn't seem bothered by the promise at all. "I never would've thought this of you, Joseph."

Joe wouldn't have thought it of himself, either. So wonderful of this monster to notice.

Thatcher gestured at Saul and the other man. "Bring him."

Joe didn't move. "Let Frank leave."

"Of course." Thatcher/Edward waved a hand dismissively. The man holding Frank let go, and Frank pitched forward. Vladimir caught him and dragged him to the edge of the yard, just where the shadows touched the light.

Saul grabbed Joe, but Joe yanked away. "I can walk." Joe staggered after Thatcher/Edward, careful to mind his footing across the uneven, rough concrete; it hid his trembling. "That's what you want, right? A willing victim who's committed no treachery, killed in a traitor's stead?"

Across the yard, Frank raised his head.

"Treachery depends on definition, dear boy," Thatcher/Edward said. "I can assure you, there's no lion here for a last minute rescue."

"I know, Death doesn't care who it takes," Joe said, as Saul pushed him into a small chalked circle, a circle marked with a triangle inside it — the summoning circle, to protect whatever was inside it. Joe looked up, met Frank's gaze. "He always shoots to kill. No matter what, no matter who."

There, beyond Frank, just outside the light, someone settled to sit on one of the larger concrete chunks, and Joe clearly heard the scrape of a shovel against gravel, followed by a whiff of cigar smoke.

The circle wouldn't protect against bullets. As small it was, Joe would be in line of sight no matter where the shooter was. Let the Blades take him out; Joe would not sacrifice Edward just to get Thatcher. Too many innocents had died already. Then Samedi would take Joe and leave Frank alone, and that would be that.

"Down," Saul growled, shoving Joe to his knees.

"Gently, Saul." Thatcher/Edward sounded labored, as if he struggled to speak. "Walking will be difficult enough without adding bruises to the matter. Here." Thatcher/Edward reached, grabbed Joe's shirt —

Joe yanked back. "Are you nuts? It's freezing out here."

"My dear boy, I simply don't want any bloodstains," Thatcher/Edward said. "That looks like a nice shirt, and blood is hard to remove."

Well, that made sense…wait… _"Bloodstains?_ But…I thought…I thought you wanted this body." Joe started back to his feet, but another man grabbed him, twisted Joe's arms behind him, holding him still.

"Oh, I do." Thatcher/Edward grasped Joe's shirt again and carefully unbuttoned it, opening it. "Oh…my. That's lovely. A phoenix. How appropriate." Then Thatcher/Edward stopped, frowning at the paint. "Or something more, perhaps?"

Saul had come around to stand behind Thatcher/Edward. "Nothing's there," Saul said. "And you're forgetting your bargain, boy. Drop the shields. Your brother's still in reach."

Joe swallowed. "I hope it's good and deep," he muttered under his breath, towards where the figure sat. At this distance, in the uncertain light and shadow, its face looked gray-white, cracked and pocked as if bone. "I'd dig a few extra feet, just to be sure."

"Pardon?" Thatcher/Edward looked strained, pale — he swayed, was caught by Saul.

"Nothing." With a deep breath, Joe let his shields go. "Just…an old friend."

Smiling into Joe's eyes, Thatcher/Edward stood there, as Saul hefted a sharpened, gleaming machete…

Oh…dear…God — Joe recoiled, was forced still by the man holding him. He hadn't thought — Thatcher couldn't — this hadn't been what he'd thought — Joe couldn't tear his eyes away from the glittering metal —

…and before Edward could do more than gasp, as the black of the boy's eyes suddenly faded to clear, confused amber, Saul yanked the boy's head back and slit his throat.


	46. Guns on the Roof

_**A/N: Thanks to Caranath, Leyapearl, ChrisDaughterOfApollo, Xenithia, & DuffyBarkley for the PMs & reviews! Another early post; today is "get the $&#% taxes done" day, so I'm posting while I'm still in the mood TO post. **_

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"_What the fuck is he doing?"_

It was only by force of will that Kris remained down and silent; Joshua wasn't so controlled, though he did keep it to a gritted-teeth whisper. Both of them watched the unfolding travesty with the scowling glares of hunting hawks…then Joe shot their plan totally to pieces.

Her migraine had eased off, though she was still loopy from the meds and her shields were dope-thin; she had one of Joshua's pre-sets in her pocket. But Kris wasn't out here for her Gifts — loopy or not, she could still fire a gun. Joshua had tried to make her stay behind. _Tried._ Not with her big brothers in trouble, never, ever!

But Joe had blown the plan. She should've known he'd try something like this, she should've _known!_

"He's right in our line of fire," Joshua breathed. "That stupid mother-blessed son of a —" Kris kicked him; he cut himself off.

Joe was just supposed to get Frank clear. The bluff was only supposed to last as long as it took for Vladimir to get his hands on Frank and get him out of the firing line. Kris hadn't liked the plan that Joshua had outlined, had not wanted to sacrifice Edward, who was just a teenage junkie who'd likely been tricked and was now caught in the middle…but…bluntly…they couldn't see any way to save him. Thatcher had to be trapped in that junkie's body, and without all the setup Thatcher'd had at New Orleans, taking Edward out would kill Thatcher for good this time. That'd been Joshua's reasoning, and Kris couldn't fault it, especially after seeing the crude chalk markings scribbled on the concrete. No, nowhere close to what had been in New Orleans.

Not that Edward was innocent. Children were never as innocent as adults made them out to be; Kris _knew_ that, bone-deep. Edward had let Thatcher in. He'd participated in the abuse and torture of two small children — willingly, from what Rita and Emelio had said. But still…maybe…he could've been saved…

Then…then…

"_What?!" _It burst from Kris in an explosive whisper, as the words of the blood-bargain echoed across the weeds, Saul growling, Joe's voice clear and steady. Joshua clamped Kris's arm down, then _glared_ her down when she tried to jerk away.

But then movement caught her attention: two small shadows moving where no shadow should've been — oh dear gods…

"I'll kill her," Kris breathed through clenched teeth. "I'll kill Jamie very, very dead, and then I'll dig her up to kill her again and again —"

"Later," Joshua growled, kicking her back and cutting off the tirade. "Get them. _Now."_

Sparing a single glance — _dear gods, big brother, what have you done?! — _Kris eased up, gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the dark, then ducked from concrete chunk to weed clump to scattered trash cans with one nervous eye on the candle-lit circle. The shadows didn't seem to notice her, seemed intent on wherever they were going, until Kris was almost on top of them.

Just as the smaller squeaked, Kris lunged, grabbed, and wrestled Rita down, and was immediately attacked by the other — then her awareness jolted with a sudden lack of noise from the yard.

"Check it out," she heard Saul Smith snap. That did it — struggling with two children who squirmed worse than snakes and also bit and kicked, Kris focused all her fear and anger into a mental yell.

_:STOP IT IT'S ME!:_

The smaller shadow gasped and stopped struggling; Emelio froze just long enough for Kris to yank him down. She pulled them into a clustered huddle behind a chunk of concrete, pushing their heads down so their eyes didn't reflect the flashlight beams now sweeping the weed-choked field. Her head pounded, she was shaking badly, but Kris forced her breathing to slow and concentrated _hard_ on being _not-here_.

The beams swept closer, closer, then stopped. _"Over here!"_

No time, no other choice. Kris shoved the kids down, started to push up, intending to play stupid target and draw the SOBs away…but Emelio touched her arm and a sudden jump of energy amped Kris's Gift up. Not like Joe's amp did, not the smack of a tidal wave, but — Kris shook off her shock, collapsed back, eyes closed and concentrating fiercely as she boosted the _not-here_, just enough, just barely enough…

A heartbeat of hesitation…then the flashlight beams continued past, circled back towards the light. No yells, no shouts of discovery.

Breathing out hard, Kris slumped back, rubbing at her forehead as the migraine pounded with a vengeance. Okay. Time to get angry. It gave her something to focus on instead of the excruciating pain and whatever was happening in the lit circle. _:WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING HERE?:_

One thing about being a 'path, even if only a touch: it didn't allow lying and left very little wiggle-room. Emelio gulped, opened his mouth, but little Rita grabbed Kris's arm.

_:They need us they need us they're gonna kill the angels we can't let the angels die please please please I won't let them die I can't I won't!:_

Fear, certainty, awe, belief all tore into Kris along with the rush of words. Great, Gifted, headstrong, and precocious…a bad combination. "Angels", plural — so Joe had been elevated, in Rita's mind. Kris would never, ever, let the brothers live this one down…well, if they survived, anyway, and Joe would have to survive not only Thatcher, but Joshua, Kris, _and_ Mar when this was all over.

No time for lengthy chat. _:They'll kill YOU. You can't help. The angels want you SAFE!:_

_:NO!: _Rita clutched at Kris's arm, then laid a small dirty hand along Kris's face.

The migraine vanished.

Blinking, Kris touched her forehead, waiting for the pain to start again…and then realization hit. Vladimir had told Frank and Joe these kids were Gifted, though not with what: "a rare treasure", Joe had quoted. Grasping little Rita's hand, Kris stared at that determined, scared face. A Healer, an all-too-rare, gods-Gifted _Healer…_and an Amp…and they were sister-brother. Oh blessed gods.

Her big brothers' chances might have just become survivable.

Decision made. "Okay," Kris breathed, then changed back to mental speech as she gathered both children into her arms, a comforting hug; Rita gulped, shivering, but she and Emelio kept their crying muffled to soft sniffles. _:But you both will stay down and stay hidden and you will follow my orders, UNDERSTAND?!:_

Emelio's eyes went wide. Not looking at Kris, Rita sniffled again, but both children nodded.

The noises from the dimly-lit yard had increased: murmuring chant, angry voices. But then something else whispered through Kris's mind: a touch, a push, a flash of vision —

_Joe…Frank…_

Her small bit of precognition wasn't good, limited to hunches and vague feelings, and not very far ahead. But this…she froze, caught in sudden, definite, terrified warning — blood, too much blood…death…_Frank!_

Kris shoved to her feet…

…as the first gunshot rang out.


	47. Up Against The Wall

_**A/N: Wow, seeing how everyone near-cussed me out on taxes for that last cliffhanger, I'll post early again, as a celebration for getting the stupid things done. Thanks to Caranath, Leyapearl, ChrisDaughterOfApollo, DuffyBarkley & Xenithia for the reviews! Folks: check out Caranath, Leyapearl & Xenithia for great stories! (See what you get for reviewing? A free plug!)**_

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What was Joe _thinking?_

Shivering in the cold, Frank struggled, his legs scraping across the rough gravel and broken concrete as Saul dragged him towards where Joe and Vladimir waited. Relief waved through him: Joe hadn't been a prisoner, it'd been a con…but now this, whatever Joe was pulling…

Sick, despairing, Frank stared at his brother. All that bitterness, all that anger, all that hate…? Frank knew it'd been building up, knew Joe hadn't been holding up well under the weight of Dad and Aunt Gertrude and being kicked from the Blades, but this?

"…and don't get me started on _big brother_, there," Joe spat, contempt seething through every syllable.

Don't get _him _started? Frank had done his damnedest to keep Joe safe, had been taking it in the teeth from Dad for the last two months…and Frank was now on the literal chopping block, and Joe _dared…_

"…he can have _big brother_ there."

Wait a minute…

Frank ran back through everything in his head. _Big brother_ — Joe kept using that phrase, spitting it out as if to make sure Frank heard it. But Joe _never_ called Frank that. Only Tag did. Certainty rooted and grew: Joe was trying to alert him. With the way he kept glancing at Frank…

No. Don't look around. Don't do anything that could give whatever game was being played away.

Wait…_"he can have big brother?"_ Horrified realization sunk in. Joe _knew_ what Thatcher wanted and was…was going to…oh God, no!

"_Joe, don't!"_ Frank choked off as Saul yanked his head back and pressed the garden shears under Frank's jaw, against the jugular vein.

"No one asked you," Saul hissed.

Then that horrifying, deadly bargain…and the other man holding Frank clamped Frank's jaw and mouth shut, holding Frank silent until it was over. Swearing under his breath, Vladimir grabbed him, dragged Frank towards the darkness outside the broken concrete.

"That's what you want, right?" Joe said clearly, and maybe only Frank heard the slight shake in his brother's voice. "A willing victim who's committed no treachery, killed in a traitor's stead?"

Frank barely heard Thatcher's reply, as Vladimir freed his legs and worked at the cuffs binding Frank's wrists. Joe was quoting a kid's book at a time like this? Tag had said something about that specific quote, something about myths being based on truth. But Joe couldn't think Narnia was real!

"Death doesn't care who it takes." Joe stared hard at Frank. "He always shoots to kill. No matter what, no matter who."

…_Frank had been crouched in a run-down lot filled with rusting dumpsters and husks of delivery trucks, listening to frantic whispers and rescue-plans…and Joshua had gripped Frank's shoulder, had forced Frank to look at him. _

"_Point is," Joshua had said, "you follow orders. And if we tell you to shoot, you shoot to kill. No matter what. No matter who…"_

Joe couldn't mean…if Joe thought for one minute that Frank could…would… "No," Frank whispered. "Joe, _no."_

Despite Vladimir's urging, Frank didn't move, unable to tear his gaze away. He'd seen too much horror in New Orleans: Joe, the Karma guy, the mutilated, decomposed bodies of dead kids spilling out of the barrels. In Frank's nightmares, those kids twitched in those pools of formaldehyde, reached towards him, begging, pleading, and he couldn't help…could only stand there, rooted and unable to even scream…

Saul pulled Edward's head back. That machete ripped through the teen's throat, then blood, too much blood — it wouldn't stop, it kept flowing, spreading down Edward's shirt and arms. Eyes wide, Edward crumpled, a hand at his throat as if to stem the flood, mouth open and gagging. The other hand reached towards Frank in silent, terrified plea…

Then Edward fell forward to lay spasming against the bloody concrete just like those mutilated kids…

Joe collapsed.

Vladimir grabbed Frank. "Your brother bought your freedom," Vladimir growled in his ear. "Don't waste it. _Move."_

Rooted in horror, Frank only stood there. Bent over, panting, Joe lifted and flexed his left hand, staring at it in open fascination. Then, finally, Joe grasped Saul's arm and accepted help up, nearly lost his balance, but steadied himself against Saul's shoulder.

Then Joe looked up and saw Frank standing there. "Hello, _brother,"_ Joe said, smiling.

His eyes were complete, endless black.

"No," Frank breathed.

Vladimir spat something out, then pushed in front of Frank; the man's stance was open challenge.

_No matter what, no matter who._

Before Vladimir could react, Frank grabbed the gun from Vladimir's holster, fumbled as his hand registered _plastic_ instead of metal, but caught himself, shoved past Vladimir…and leveled the gun on Joe.

"Oh, Frank," Joe sighed. "How…American."

Joe's voice, with that clipped, perfect Oxford British accent: unreal…no, _impossible._ Joe couldn't do accents to save his life. His attempts at mimicking a southern drawl while in the NOLA hospital had resulted in threats from Joshua — and nurses, doctors, and everyone else in hearing — that trying it again would be hazardous to his remaining un-casted limbs.

Eyes blurring, Frank swallowed the memory down. This wasn't Joe. It wasn't.

But his fingers would not pull the trigger.

Somewhere out in the darkness, someone squeaked, a childish, high-pitched gasp, followed by the crunch of weed and gravel with a choked-off curse. Everyone froze, looking towards the sound.

"Check it out," Saul snapped at some of the watching men, who grabbed up flashlights and took off into the dark fields.

But Frank thought he'd recognized the voice. Joe _had_ been trying to alert him. So why hadn't the Blades moved? What were they waiting for? Had it been part of the plan to sacrifice Joe?

Were they out there at all?

"Put the gun away, Frank," Joe said, in the tones of a teacher speaking to a slightly-stupid student. "No one here will hurt you. You can leave freely, without harm or hinderance."

"You can't hurt him, anyway, pretty boy," Saul sneered. "Your brother promised. That's what all that rigamarole was about. Ever see the backlash from a broken binding? It's not pretty."

"No," Frank said steadily. "Joe only promised _he_ wouldn't fight. You didn't say anything about me."

Saul's breath hissed in. "Oh, really? Well, _you're_ surrounded. You'd better re-think your position —"

"And _you,_ Saul,_" _Vladimir broke in, "agreed that not only you, but that _diavol_ and your people would not harm this man. Joe defined it as such, and you accepted it."

Well, at least Joe's brain had been working _that_ far. Frank shifted, re-adjusted his aim. He had to stay calm. He had to think.

"None of which matters," Joe said, still smiling. "Because, my dear boy, we both know that you won't shoot. Not your dear, baby brother."

Screw logic, this was_ Joe. _Frank's heart twisted. But Joe had told him…Joe wouldn't have wanted…

"He's not dead, you know," Joe — no, _Thatcher_ — said. Even the stance — despite the crippled legs, it was Thatcher's self-satisfied, hands-in-pockets posture. "He's still here. I haven't quite figured that part out, unfortunately — how to evict the current tenant, so to speak. If you shoot, you'll kill him for good. You don't want that. You know you don't."

No, Frank didn't. Not if there was any chance…oh God, what would he tell Dad? _"I'm sorry, Dad, I had to kill Joe…"_

…_he'll be trapped in that body, he won't be able to leave, and he'll die there. That's all I care about…_

"You don't believe me," Thatcher said. Not a question, just simple, stated fact. "Well, then."

As Frank watched, those all-black eyes faded, and Joe swayed, fell to his knees, caught himself on his hands before he went face-first into the concrete…and then looked up.

The eyes were Joe's: clear, golden hazel.

Frank's aim wavered. But as Joe looked at him — calm, steady, no fear — Frank had the unshakable feeling of someone standing right behind Joe, twisting his arm and shoving him up against the wall.

…_in his mind, Frank was a kid again, Joe at his back, tackling the school bullies who'd tried to beat them up. They'd always had each others' backs…._

None of this was right. Frank had to be insane to even think of shooting Joe, his baby brother, his best friend, his _brother_.

But as Frank's aim wavered, as his eyes blurred and stung and his arms shook from weariness, fear, horror, and just not wanting to deal with any of it, Joe's gaze caught his, held it.

Slowly, Joe nodded.

Then, suddenly, Joe gasped and collapsed over his hands and knees, panting. "Nice try, I believe the vernacular is," he breathed. The clipped, precise, perfect British accent was back. Joe — Thatcher — looked up at Frank. "There, now. Your proof. I was not lying."

Black eyes.

"No," Frank whispered. "You weren't."

And fired.

Eyes widening, Joe jerked back, blood spreading over his chest — he opened his mouth, his gaze still fixed on Frank…then collapsed.

More gunshots erupted, and several loud voices bellowed "_Drop them and hands up!" _Chaos broke out, people screaming, running.

Ignoring all of it, Frank staggered over, stared down at his brother. Eyes closed, Joe — Thatcher — was panting, lying in a wide, spreading pool of blood. "You forgot the important part, Thatcher," Frank said quietly. "You forgot to ask if I loved my brother." Frank knelt down, grasped Joe's hand in his own. "I do. And I would never, ever, leave him to you."

No response.

In books, in movies, on TV, there was always a moment when the dying person gasped out some reassurance, something, anything to their loved ones. But here, nothing, just rasping, horrible gasps fading to unmoving silence…and Joe's hand slowly relaxed.

So that was it, then. "Easy, little brother," Frank whispered. "You won't be alone." Even now, he wasn't about to leave his brother to Thatcher. Frank would never let Joe face that monster alone. Too bad they'd left the baseball bats back in Bayport, but nothing was perfect.

The gun — that weird, plastic gun — was still in Frank's hand. He'd killed his brother, his baby brother, his best friend, in cold-blooded, calculated murder; best to spare everyone the nonsense of a trial and Death Row. Best that Frank never faced Dad, never had to try to answer _why_. Frank lifted that gun, then, with a deep, shaky breath, turned it around —

— only for someone to grab Frank's wrist and wrench him around; a sharp crunch of pain jarred the gun from his hand. Gasping, doubling over, Frank stared up…

…into Tag's face.

"Don't even think it, big brother," Kris snarled, "because then I'd have to bring you back to kill you all over again."


	48. Moonshadow

**_A/N: wow...thanks to Xenithia (who writes the best Robin/Nightwing fic ever), ChrisDaughterOfApollo, Caranath (check out her awesome HB tales), DuffyBarkley, AlecTowser (an old-school Dr Who writer), & SnowPrincess88 (another awesome Hardy Boys writer) for the reviews! Special plug for Snow: she also writes in the '70s show 'verse, and she does it *better*. Back to the tale!  
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A bomb exploded inside Joe's chest, then metal jack-hammered through his ribs and lungs. He couldn't catch his breath, and every struggled-for bit of air sliced a sharp, cold knife through his chest. His lungs squeezed painfully…he couldn't see, everything had whited-out, and he was lying in something wet. Someone was holding his hand…he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe…

"I have to admit, _chè,"_ said an aged, wrinkly voice, "that didn't work out like I thought it would."

Joe opened his eyes.

Stars. That was the first thing that registered: a fiery blaze of stars striped across the huge, huge sky, the entirety of the Milky Way wheeling through endless night. So bright…so, so _bright…_

"Can't be very comfortable, lying there," said the old voice. "Come over here and sit yourself down, _chè_. We've got some time."

The speaker didn't sound like Thatcher. Slowly, Joe pushed himself up, marveling at the complete lack of pain — even his legs didn't hurt — but then stopped.

His own body lay at his feet.

That was it, then. Joe could see the pool of blood, the bullet-hole almost dead-center in the chest. No coming back from that. Odd: there wasn't anyone else here. He was alone, completely, totally alone. Wasn't that part of dying, that loved ones would be waiting for you?

"Mom?" Joe whispered.

Only cold, echoing silence.

"_Mom!"_ Was that all there was, this cold darkness, alone…?

Behind him, the speaker sighed. "_Chè…_please. Come sit. We've got some talking to do."

Shivering, hugging himself, Joe turned. The old Black man in the skull mask and shabby tuxedo — Samedi.

His shovel propped next to him, Samedi sat by a pile of concrete chunks next to a wide, deep hole. He had a bottle in one hand, and with the other, he patted the spot next to him. "Mind the kid," Samedi said, nodding. "He's having a real hard time of it. His own stupid fault."

Joe looked down — the kid, Edward, huddled against the ground, shivering.

"He'll get it out of his system sooner or later." Samedi yawned. "I can't stand whining, especially from damn fools."

"He's just a kid," Joe said, wiping at his face. How could he be crying? He was _dead_. "He didn't deserve what happened."

"Most people don't," Samedi said. "But most folks got the sense to say 'no' when someone says they want to share your body and would you mind letting it if they turn you into a monster in exchange? No, _chè,_ he wasn't a child. Get that out of your head. He knew right from wrong and fantasy from reality. He chose to ignore it. Hate to say it, but natural selection can be a real bitch."

Joe had no clue what Samedi wanted. Joe was dead, game over, curtains rung down, fat lady sung. Why bother talking? Just get it over with. "So you're saying I've got no sense, either."

"Just the opposite. Here." Samedi held out the bottle, and when Joe hesitated, "Don't worry, it's the good stuff. That friend of yours — Joshua — well, we go back a ways, one soldier to another. He knows the stuff I like, and he's not stingy like most of 'em." Samedi's grin was mischievous. "But just between you and me and the lamp post, _chè,_ no more Happy Meals, eh? Real bad for the heart, that crap."

Joe looked at the bottle — something itched at him…pomegranate seeds and winter… something about not eating the food of the dead — and shook his head. "No, thank you."

Another sigh. "Make one mistake, and you're at the mercy of reporters for all eternity, I swear. My hospitality won't trap you here, _chè,_ I promise. I wouldn't do that to you."

Thinking about it, there wasn't any point in refusing, really. Joe nodded his thanks, accepted the bottle, took a swig. The rum burned his throat and made his head swim, but he was able to hand the bottle back and sit down without falling. "Sorry. I'm being stupid, I guess. Since I'm already dead, I mean."

"There's dead, and there's dead. You're only mostly dead." Samedi grinned, but Joe didn't understand the joke, whatever it was.

"Well, yeah, but you're here, and I see that grave. A bullet through the heart's pretty final." Joe looked around at the dark, silent field. Something was missing, something else that should've been here…no, some_one._ "Where's Thatcher?"

"That one." Samedi spat on the ground, took another swig. "Like I said, I really hate whining. And his has been the worst kind — thinks he deserves some special exception to life, and tosses a tantrum when he doesn't get it. He'll be along, don't you worry."

"So why didn't you take him before?" Suddenly all the bitterness welled up, all the remembered terror and pain. "You took all those kids…and…and you took Mom, but you let _him_ live and…"

"Joseph…"Samedi sighed it out. "The eternal question. _Why them? Why not him? Why me, and not that other person? _ _Chè, _truly, I have no answer for you. I don't kill anyone. No, hear me out. I have some lee-way — I can help things along and take the pain away, one way or another, and I get you where you need to go, when all's said and done. But I really, truly don't kill anyone. You do that to yourselves. And sickness, age — well, your bodies are just made that way, to wear out and let you move on. You'll have to go higher up the ladder to answer that particular 'why', _chè."_

"Higher up the ladder," Joe echoed. "What's that got to do with you? For that matter, why are you waiting for me? You're _voodoo._ You're not Christian."

Silence.

"And after I gave you that good rum, too," Samedi grumbled. "You really don't listen to your friends, do you?" With a grunt, Samedi pushed to his feet, stretched, walked a few steps away, then turned…

With a gasp, Joe scrabbled back.

No longer the drunken old man — a dark hooded angel towered over him, robed in a rotting black shroud, black wings spread and scythe upraised, swirling with lightning and haloes of vibrating light.

"Samael," the angel said. "Or Azrael, if you wish. I've been called both. Or maybe you'd prefer…" A gray-winged owl, soft wingbeats whispering in the air…an old woman, toothless and hunched, covered in a ragged white shawl and carrying a broom…a giant black hound…a skeleton crowned and garbed in colorful royal robes…then a young woman dressed like the Ramones: heavy leather jacket, ripped jeans, pale skin, thick black hair that flowed down her back, and deep, shadowed eyes filled with stars…

Those eyes rested on him. "I'm not Christian. I'm not Jewish, nor Muslim, nor Pagan, nor Voodoo — I'm not _anything._ No matter what you are, I'm here. I'm _always_ here, no matter what, no matter _who._"

Here, and he was alone, save for Death. There wasn't anything but this, then: nothing but the cold dark. That was what She meant. Shivering, trapped, terrified, Joe stared…then crumpled.

Another sigh, then old, wrinkled arms pulled him into a comforting hug, draping her white shawl around him to envelop him in warmth. "Oh, my son, my dear, dear son…I didn't mean it like that. Everyone always thinks I'm under their particular petty world-view, and I'm not. I'm just _not. _Here…" She handed him the bottle again, helped him take another drink.

Too big a swallow — Joe spluttered, then choked into laughter. "God…I wish I could tell Frank. I meet Death, and all She does is try to get me drunk."

"We _could_ do more," She said, sly. "I've got a reputation to maintain, after all, and you are really cute."

"Yeah, yeah, I bet you say that to all the guys."

"Sooner or later," She admitted. "You're not even the first to try to kill himself to get a date. Now, getting back to that whole _voodoo_ bullshit…"

"I'm sorry," Joe said, looking at Her. Still an old woman, but now she was Black, garbed in rich golden silks — she looked much like the old homeless woman, Anga. "That wasn't what I meant. I mean…I'm Christian. Methodist, sort of. So why Samedi?"

"Ahhhhh." A long drawl of understanding. "Local belief prevails, dear one_._ You were in New Orleans, in the home of a Queen, and in her place of power. On top of that…" Her face darkened to a scowl, "…that's how I was being summoned. It tied that incarnation in. And here, well, I didn't want to confuse matters. It got you to pay attention, after all. You have to admit, your brother's reaction afterwards was hysterical." Then She looked up. "Finally. The fool took his sweet time about it. Some folks can't take a hint, even if you hit 'em with a VP70 and a bottle of Jack."

She stood up…no, _He_ stood up, the old man in the skull-mask and shabby tuxedo. Samedi shouldered the shovel and waited, as Thatcher strolled into view, looking around with avid interest.

"'Bout time you got here, _chè," _Samedi said.

"Well," Thatcher said. "Well, well. Trying to steal a march on me, Joseph? I assure you, it won't work."

"No," Joe said. "I'm just…um…chatting with a friend." It earned him a quick flash of a grin from Samedi.

But Thatcher was smiling. "Even now, your friends work to revive my body. Seems that little brat can Heal. I shall have to make a study of her, once I'm back. I'll be much more careful this time, I assure you."

"Famous last words, so to speak," Samedi said. "Well, come along, now, _chè_. You're overdue."

"Oh, I'm not going anywhere," Thatcher said, with a respectful nod of his head. "Joseph there is the one you want. That young man made a most unwise bargain. That's my body now, there, and soon it'll be right as rain. He relinquished all claim to it, so his brother could go free."

"It's true, sir," Joe said quietly. "I did."

"None of that 'sir' nonsense, _chè_, I _work_ for a living," Samedi said, waggling a finger at Joe. "I know that bargain of yours, both of you. That body, as you put it, was only yours until you died, Orrin Thatcher. And you died three months ago in a New Orleans warehouse, when Frank Hardy shot you through the head, Joshua Thomas burned your face off, and Emmanuel Duveé unraveled your magic. Shot, exploded, burned to ash, and swept into the Gulf. You can't get deader than that."

Looking nonplussed, Thatcher stared at Samedi. "You are wrong. I lived after that. I still live. That young junkie Edward gave me his body."

"Which is just as dead," Samedi said. "A knife through the throat does that."

"Yet _his_ body…"

"_Chè, chè,"_ Samedi said, shaking his head. "Enough. Take it up with your protégé, who didn't specify _which_ death he meant. You died in New Orleans, before the bargain — maybe you could argue that point. But you died again, _after_ the bargain was agreed to, when that knife cut your throat. And I'm the final arbiter, judge, and jury._"_ Samedi picked up his bottle of rum, then clapped his hand down on Thatcher's shoulder…and suddenly Samedi was no longer old, no longer drunk, and no longer kindly-looking.

Shivering, Joe looked away.

"By the way, Joe,do me a favor, hmmm? Go over there and take a look at that hole. I kept asking you if you wanted to know who it was for, and you never did answer me." A grin was laced all through Samedi's voice. "I took your advice, _chè, _believe me."

Keeping his face averted from Samedi and Thatcher, Joe pushed to his feet and walked to the grave — much, much deeper than usual — and at the head of it, a newly carved stone:

_Orrin Thatcher._

"I'm not just the _loa _of death, _chè,"_ Samedi said, in Joe's ear. "I'm also the _loa _of _life_…"

Then something struck Joe hard, in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards, and he tripped, landed flat, hit his head against the concrete…

Dizzy, half-aware, Joe opened his eyes. Everything was fogged, hazy — his chest felt as if he'd been kicked by the Mortons' horses, his head ached, and his clothes were wet and sticky. Something scratchy and smelling of fabric softener was wrapped around him; his legs were propped up on an old crate. Hands were on his chest, and muzzily, Joe looked — little Rita knelt by his side, her small hands spread on his chest and her face scrunched in a scowl of concentration. Beside her, Emelio had his hands on hers, and Kris was beside them both, her arms around them and her forehead touching Rita's as she murmured something Joe didn't catch. Across from them, one hand laid on top of Rita's and Emelio's…Frank.

"Look at me, Joe," Frank said fiercely, his face damp and streaked with tears and dirt. _"Look at me."_

Joe met his brother's gaze, then, with effort, lifted his hand — and Frank grabbed it.

"He's awake?" said another voice, Joshua. "Oh, good. I'm first in line to kill him again, remember that, people."

"You can't kill an angel," Kris said, squinting up, and shook Rita and Emelio gently — the children startled, looking dazed. Rita yawned, blinking around at everyone, then stared down at Joe, and with a scream, threw herself down, hugging him and babbling in a fast, tumbling stream of Spanish.

"It wasn't a dream," Joe murmured. "You were there…and you and you…"

"He must be okay," Frank said, speaking over his shoulder. "He's quoting _Wizard of Oz._"

Joshua came within Joe's vision, knelt down, and spoke in a low, low voice. "Idiot. What did I tell you about sharing vital information with your partner?"

Unexpected laughter bubbled up; Joe choked, spasmed into a coughing fit.

"He did," Frank whispered, and tightened his grip on Joe's hand. "Believe me, he did."

Joshua bowed his head, then sighed. "Okay, _chè, _then I'll put off killing you for now. Just lie still, we've got an ambulance on the way. Cops are already here, with Sam leading the charge. _Everyone_ is going to keep their mouths shut until I say otherwise. Clear?"

Something nudged at Joe's exhausted brain…something…something important. "Saul…" Joe managed, trying to free his other arm from under the combined heap of Rita and Emelio, but the children clung to him. He was shivering, convulsing; he was cold, so cold. "He's…he's one of Thatcher's…"

"I know, _chè." _Joshua looked grim. "He'll be handled. And your girlfriend is lucky these little delinquents admitted to knocking her out, because she'd've been tops on my kill list otherwise."

"_Ritacita,"_ Frank said gently, prying her away with his left hand, _"déjelo reposar."_

Yawning, Rita gasped something out, but let Frank pull her away. She huddled against him, as sirens wailed closer.

Then Joe noticed something odd: Frank's right hand and wrist were swollen and badly bruised. Frank held it cradled in his lap and cushioned with someone's jacket.

"Ambulance's here," said another voice — Mar — but Joe didn't care. Exhaustion claimed him then, and he welcomed it…


	49. Kill The King

_**A/N: Thanks to ChrisDaughterOfApollo, Xenithia, AlecTowser, DuffyBarkley, Caranath, & Leyapearl for the reviews! Leya's another awesome HB writer here - oh, and SnowPrincess88? You can open your eyes now. :)**_

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"You're sure about this, Joshua?" Eli said, as they waited in the police station.

Joshua didn't answer. One of the advantages of having someone on the SFPD, especially a decorated, respected detective as Samuel: they could get in as "special investigators" to examine those being held as suspects. Those in the know would look the other way, and the rest would follow their lead. It wasn't something the Blades took advantage of much, only when there was no other choice.

"No one's ever sure of it, ever," Downs rumbled. "But it has to be done. I just wonder what tale the SOB's going to have cooked up."

Joshua didn't hold much hope; Frank's description of the People's Gate leader Saul Smith hadn't been good. But…still. It had to be done. If there was any hope for Smith to face justice and to ensure Thatcher was truly gone, they had to do this, especially before the feds got their act together and got involved with subpoenas, court-orders, and walls of silence.

"Josh?" Samuel came into the waiting area, nodded at the trio, and led them back into the station. "Just so you know," Samuel said in an undertone, "word is he's gonna make bail. Judge got 'influenced', is what they're saying. The normal illegal way, that is."

None of the local politicians had wanted to anger the People's Gate before it'd all gone down, and few wanted to take on what remained. Somehow Saul Smith had gotten his hands into a lot of dark closets, and no one wanted the contents dumped onto the public media sidewalk.

"Any word on the mother?" Samuel said.

Joshua only looked at him.

Sighing, Samuel stopped before the door of the secure interview room. "What a world."

"Angel reported it to your day-watch," Joshua said finally, taking pity on the man. Samuel had been awake two days straight dealing with the fallout, after all. "They haven't made the connection yet."

"They will." Samuel unlocked the door. "I'm sorry for her and the kids, but between you and me, Butterfly, I can't wait for that part to hit the news. Fifteen minutes. That's all I can give you."

Joshua only nodded and let Eli and Downs precede him into the bare room.

Saul Smith sat at the table, raised his eyebrows on seeing the trio. Slick, the beginnings of a jowl, black hair showing gray at its roots and combed back in an Elvis-style ducktail, thick sideburns. The man's shields glowed to Joshua's Sight: not the best, definitely second-rate compared to those taught by the Association, but it still would take too much effort to crack them.

While those shields were up, while Saul's mage-Gift remained intact, Thatcher's protégé was a nuclear-level danger…especially if the feds got their hands on him. Someone with Thatcher's knowledge and ability in the hands of Black Ops…Joshua wasn't pre-cog, but he knew where that would lead.

The world did not need any more nightmares.

"I remember you," Saul said to Joshua. Joshua saw Saul's gaze travel over Downs and Eli, dismiss them as unimportant, then rivet back on Joshua with a slow, bare nod: the predator recognizing another hunter. "You were there. Throwing your weight around again, I see. Cops so hard up they have to bring in a black faggot to do their dirty work?"

"Better mind your manners, darlin'," Joshua said. Something about the man's shields itched at him, something off. "Right now, we're the best hope you have for getting out of this place intact. Especially once those kids' stories hit the news."

The man had not made any escape attempts. Saul's mage-Gift was fair-to-middling, but anyone with a bit of wit could've used it to get out of any but the tightest security facilities.

Which meant Saul _wanted_ to stay in. That was even more worrying.

"Now we come to it. The temptation." Arms crossed, Saul sat back. "Well, I know you're not cops. You're connected somehow with those two guys Orrin wanted. What'd the pretty boy call you…knives? No…Blades — yeah, that was it. Some super-secret organization."

Joshua glanced up; behind Saul, Eli nodded. "Not so secret, really," Joshua said. "Just so you know, darlin', anything we say here's under the table. There's no one behind that two-way mirror, and the hidden mikes are off. So…" Joshua raised his hand, and it came alight, a fierce gold that cast sharp shadows against the institutional-green walls.

"Get thee behind me, Satan," Saul said. "I will not betray my people to dupes of the conspiracy."

"Maybe you're not aware of it," Joshua said, noting Eli's uneasy expression; Downs had gone wooden, "but California _is_ a death penalty state. And something about the cold-blooded murder of several hundred people will pretty much guarantee it."

"Not by my hand," Saul said calmly. "They knew the end was nigh."

"Perhaps. But there are a half dozen people who will witness to your personal hand in the murder of Edward Collins."

"Assisted suicide, at most." Saul leaned forward, and Joshua saw his shields flicker. "I can witness just as easily that one of _your_ people shot that crippled boy down in cold blood. His own brother, I believe. Any of my children in custody will swear to that."

"That might be hard to do," Eli murmured.

"Try me." Saul spread his hands. "All right, Satan. We've both postured, threatened, and gotten absolutely nowhere. What do you want?"

Joshua settled back and studied the man. "Look, Saul…"

"Joshua," Downs broke in, "we best tell him the truth. He knows it, but he's not sure if we'll believe him."

Downs's gaze was steady. He had something in mind, that was obvious, but Joshua wasn't sure what. He nodded at Downs to continue.

Downs took a seat across from Saul, leaned forward with his hands on the table: open, honest. _Play with me,_ Downs's posture said, _give me a shot._ "Mr. Smith, you didn't hear all the news. That crippled boy, Joe, was healed, by the grace of God. And when he came to, Joe told us of being possessed by a demon, a demon responsible for the killing of dozens of innocent children in New Orleans. Evidently that demon also possessed Edward, and what we stumbled into was an attempt to exorcise that demon permanently."

Something in Saul's eyes came alight, and again his shields flickered. "Oh, praise Jesus…yes, that's it. That's it, exactly."

Freed from having to keep the chat going, Joshua now watched those shields, alert for that flicker. Shields could be set in place without one having to pay constant attention to them, but that took training, and Thatcher wasn't the type to have taught that to anyone likely to be a rival. If Saul's shields required constant attention to maintain…

Saul still watched Joshua. Good, divide the man's attention; let him think Joshua was the only one to worry about.

Downs nodded. "We're trying to make sure the demon is _gone._ As you can imagine, that poor boy is having quite a few problems at the moment. The Blades are guardians, Saul. We use our God-given Gifts to guard folks. We know you're Gifted. We came to offer our protection."

Hearing Downs refer to Joe as "poor boy" almost made Joshua lose his concentration. He caught himself, went back to scowling at Saul Smith.

"If the demon was causing problems for your people…" Downs let his voice trail off.

"Oh, he was." Saul leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Downs. "He _was. _We were beset by that foulness of Satan. He rode me terrible, he did — he'd possessed me, made me give orders to hunt those poor children down, those poor, blessed children of my own body…"

In that moment, Saul's shields flickered again, and Joshua pounced.

With a gasp, Saul froze. Joshua felt the man start to bring pressure against the mental grip, but Joshua clamped down hard and ripped those shields completely away, as Eli moved up and laid hands on Saul's shoulders. For a long moment, Eli was silent, then slowly, sadly, shook his head.

"'O faithless generation, how long shall I suffer you?'," Eli quoted, and Saul whimpered. "Enough of the lies. There was no demon save what you allowed in, Saul Smith. You cared nothing for those children. All those deaths, all that pain, all that suffering, rests on your head. You gave yourself willingly to evil."

"Frank didn't tell you enough, Saul, darlin'," Joshua said. "We're secret, all right. But we're here to protect folks, Gifted and not. We protect them from people like you."

"Harold?" Eli said.

Downs got to his feet. "Gladly."

It took all three of them, each watch-dogging the other, just in case Thatcher had survived or Saul was more capable than he appeared — maybe Thatcher could slip in and possess one of them, but the other two would catch it and take action. Three of them to judge, to decide, to take the weight of that judgement. Through it, Saul cried, convulsed, and begged, pathetic, mewling whimpers.

Then it was over and Eli let go. Saul collapsed to the table, eyes wide and staring at something only he alone could see.

"'Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name?'," Eli said softly, "'and in thy name have cast out devils? and done many wonderful works? And surely will I profess unto them, I never knew you: depart, ye that work iniquity.'" Eli paused, with a deep, weary breath. "Your Gift is gone, Saul Smith. Burnt out. Whatever is left of your mind and sanity, the law can have. Joshua, Harold…"

Joshua held the door for the other two, and remained just a moment, watching. Saul hadn't moved, hadn't even registered that they'd left. Then Joshua stepped out, nearly ran into Samuel — who had been watching through the two-way mirror — and nodded at the question in Samuel's eyes.

Samuel sighed, rattled the handcuffs out, and went to call the duty-guard.

"I'm going to need a shower," Downs growled, as they walked out towards the Muni stop. "Fifteen of them, with Mar's homemade lye soap. Good _God, _Eli_, _why didn't you get Mar? She's better at that than I am."

"And Frank and Joe are as her own sons. I wanted someone who would know when to stop." Eli sighed, long and weary. "Those poor, poor children. We'll keep them at Center, of course, but I don't want to just dump them unsupervised."

"Hawk's already volunteered," Joshua said.

Eli shook his head. "No. They need a stable home, and Mar's not up to parenting children that young anymore. Maybe…" Eli slanted a glance at Joshua.

Joshua snorted. "Eli, darlin', me and Godz would love to, but you'd have CPS thundering down on you faster than you can say _Florida Orange Juice._ They've already laughed me out of Foster Services, twice."

"You could ask me," Downs said. "Cata's been talking about it, and we've got that spare room, since Jamie moved." Cata was Downs' wife, Catalina, a stout battleship of a woman who'd been a nurse in the Korean War.

Eli nodded. "Come see me after you get your multiple showers."

Joshua held his peace until they were on the Muni and Eli was chatting with an old woman sitting in the handicapped seat. Then, only then, Joshua leaned closer to Downs and said mildly, "Poor boy?"

Downs's gaze was focused on the windows. "Tell anyone I said that, and I'll break your arm."

Joshua raised an eyebrow.

"It changes nothing," Downs growled. "He was a damn-fool idiot to pull that stunt, and an even bigger idiot to do that to his brother."

"And yet…" Joshua let his voice trail off.

Downs didn't answer.

Then Joshua noticed Eli watching the exchange, and Eli nodded at him when Downs's attention turned elsewhere. Fine, then. Best not to push, not yet, anyway. Joshua had survived 'Nam because of his good sense of timing, after all.

With a bit of luck, the timing would last long enough to let everything work out.


	50. Lean on Me

_**A/N: Thanks to AlecTowser, Caranath, DuffyBarkley, & Xenithia for the reviews! Two more chapters after this, folks...**_

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Joe really, really hated hospitals.

Especially ER's. _ Especially_ ER's where Older Brother was also admitted and got loud, rude, and obnoxious when the hospital staff tried to put him across the floor from Joe. The staff had compromised by giving the brothers adjoining curtained-off partitions…which meant both brothers shared the combined focus of Joshua, Kris, and Mar.

No, "share" was a misnomer. Frank received a small fraction of questions, once the disjointed tale of what had gone down had come out, and he was discharged after the plaster had sufficiently dried on his arm cast. Joe, though: admitted and placed under observation, with more tests to be run, and he had been too out of it to answer anything coherently.

At least this time it was only a quarter of the tubes: one IV with antibiotics, two blood transfusions, and two long, sleepless days. Joe's room-mate was an elderly man hooked on _Gilligan's Island, _and one of the UHF stations was running a marathon. When Joe finally drifted off to sleep, he found out how early the X-ray team went to work: very. Ungodly. _Why-are-you-idiots-up_, for that matter.

"I'm really sick of seeing you in a hospital bed," Frank said, from the doorway.

Joe just looked at him, as Frank came in and sprawled in the chair. Frank's cast was covered in colorful marker drawings: rainbow bunnies, dinosaurs, and…an angel.

"Don't say a single word," Frank growled.

"Tag kept the markers away from Josh, I see," Joe said.

"No. She didn't." Frank nodded towards the door. "Mar's getting your discharge info. You're getting kicked out of here with extreme prejudice, because the doctors can't figure out how you got a bullet in your chest and lost all that blood without a massive hole where your heart should be."

"Just lucky, I guess."

"And they want you out of here before the word _malpractice_ occurs to anyone_."_ Frank ran a hand through his hair, rubbed at his eyes. He looked as exhausted as Joe felt.

"I vote we not tell Dad or Aunt Gertrude that I've got a 9mm slug in my chest," Joe said.

"What do you mean '_we'_, white man?" Frank's gaze moved to the TV. "As far as they're concerned, it never happened. Any of it."

Joe managed to smile, then settled back into the bed with a yawn.

"Just so you know," Frank said, "Rita and Eme are at the Center. They're camped out in Tag's rooms until everyone figures out what to do. Angel and Downs…found their mother."

Given how Emelio had been in shock at Wings, Joe had expected that. He breathed out, weary. "They've been told, I take it."

"Yeah."

Silence fell, broken only by the sounds of _"Skipper! Skipper!"_ and _"GILLIGAAAAN!" _Stupid, inane, incongruous.

"Brother…" Joe said finally, quietly, and waited until Frank looked at him, "…thanks."

Silence stretched out. Joe shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of Frank's gaze.

"_Why?"_ Frank said.

"It was the only way I could think of to save Edward," Joe said, not looking at his brother. It wasn't the whole reason, but it'd do, for now. "Lure Thatcher out with something he wanted, someone Gifted who wasn't hooked. And with Dad as a bonus…Thatcher probably thought he'd be safe, 'cause no one would think one of _Fenton's boys_ could be a killer." It came out more bitter than Joe intended. "I wasn't sure Josh or Tag would shoot." Quieter, "I knew you would."

"Downs was out there."

"He definitely wouldn't have shot. No one would've believed him." Brief, short laughter shook Joe. "He hates us, so he doesn't dare kill us. How messed up is that? And you were at point-blank range." Joe looked away again. "You wouldn't miss."

"You couldn't have saved Edward," Frank said, just as quietly. "He was willing, every step of the way. He was hurting Rita and Eme even without Thatcher egging him on."

"I know," Joe said. "I…was told."

"I wanted to ask," Frank said, after the silence had become uncomfortable. "That stuff on your chest. Something Tag did for protection?"

Between the blood, the injuries, and all the chaos, Joe was surprised Frank had noticed anything there. Then again, this was Frank. But Joe wasn't about to admit what had happened between him and Jamie. Not yet, anyway. "Nothing. Just…nothing."

Frank raised an eyebrow, but at that point, Mar came in with the nurses, discharge papers, Joe's crutch, and most important, clean clothes. As Joe changed, he looked over his chest and as much of his back as he could see in the bathroom mirror. The phoenix was definitely gone. What the gunshot and blood hadn't ruined, the nurses' scrubbing and hospital procedures had obliterated.

Walking was an effort; even sitting in the back of the car had Joe dozing off long before they reached the Center. He jolted when Frank shook him awake, and accepted Frank's help in walking into the Center. The moment Joe made it through the door into the commons, though, he was ambushed — two screaming missiles grabbed him and hung on, babbling in a flurry of Spanish and English.

Sharp Spanish silenced both Rita and Emelio, but while Emelio looked guiltily back at the speaker — Downs — Rita continued to cling to Joe, sobbing.

"Sorry." Downs didn't sound sorry; his eyes picked Joe over with cold distaste. "They insisted on waiting for you. I didn't realize they'd tackle you like that. _Ritacita, Emelio, vienen __aquí."_

"It's okay." Joe levered himself down to Rita's level, enough to envelop her in his arms. "Rita…_Ritacita_, honey, it's all right. I'm all right."

She shook her head stubbornly, then flung herself at Frank with another torrent of Spanish, though Joe distinctly heard _ángel_ repeated over and over.

"She thinks you and Frank really are angels," Emelio said, scowling. "I keep tellin' her that real angels have wings and halos, but she keeps sayin' it." The scowl turned on Joe. "You don't look like angels to _me."_

"They left their wings upstairs," said someone behind Joe and Frank — Kris — and something gold-glittery and itchy dropped onto Joe's head. Joe blinked, then stared in confusion as it sunk in that both he and Frank had Christmas-tinsel garlands on their heads —

— and a flashbulb went off.

"Got it!" Jamie crowed from the stairs, waving her Polaroid. "Our very own Bay Area Angels. That'll be a _perfect_ motto for my takeover."

"Icon, I think you mean," Kris said; Mar had collapsed laughing to a nearby couch. "A motto's a slogan."

Jamie waved that aside. "Motto, slogan, icon, same difference. Us Evil Overlords are divinely appointed, and this proves it."

"If you people don't mind," Downs said, "these two little ruffians have an appointment with CPS. No, Jamie, I will not take the photo with me."

"You're no fun, Uncle Harold," Jamie said.

Downs said something stern in Spanish. Biting her lip, Rita still shook her head, looking from Frank to Joe, then more words tumbled out, breaking down into sobs. _"¡Mamá está muerta! ¡La mataron! ¡Está muerta!"_

Joe understood _mamá, _and it didn't take any more translation to know what Rita was saying, not with Emelio standing there, looking like he wanted to throw himself at Frank and Joe and bawl, too…and Frank was rocking Rita back and forth, head bowed.

"Rita…" Joe gathered her from Frank, then pulled Emelio in, too. For a long moment, both brothers hugged the children, let them sob themselves out. Joe was near-tears himself — why him? Why not their mother? What did these children do to deserve this…?

…_chè, truly, I have no answer for you. I don't kill anyone. You do that to yourselves…_

"Our mama died, too," Frank whispered, and Emelio and Rita looked up, sniffling and wiping at their faces. "When we were your age."

"Angels don't have mothers," Emelio choked out, which got a burst of protest from Rita.

"Well, we did," Frank said. "And she told us she'd always watch over us. Joe saw her — she talked with him, but I didn't believe him, and it really hurt, because I thought he was lying. But he wasn't, and that hurt him even more."

Emelio spoke to Rita, rapid Spanish that sounded as if he was translating.

Then Rita spoke, quiet, slow, breathy. "You…saw your _mamá? ¿Su mamá es un ángel?"_

Joe nodded, hugged the child tighter.

"You're sayin' _Mamá's _watching us, too," Emelio said. "But…but…we can't see her. We've been looking, and we can't see her!"

"I couldn't see my mom, either," Frank said, and for a moment, his gaze rested on Joe. "I was really scared of ghosts. Mom knew how scared I was and she didn't want to scare me more. Your mom just doesn't want to scare you."

"I'm not scared," Emelio said, scowling.

"_¡Sí, lo eres!"_ Rita burst out, followed by a heated exchange between her and Emelio…and unexpectedly, Frank started laughing, tightening his hug around the children.

"What are they saying?" Joe said.

"That Eme's just as scared of the ghost in their closet as she is," Frank said.

Now Joe smiled. "Okay. Eme…Rita…" He waited until both children looked at him. "Tell you what. You two go with…with…Harold there. And when you get back, me and Frank'll tell you what we did about the monster in our closet." He leaned closer. "Make Harold buy you baseball bats."

Downs said something in Spanish; Emelio wiped at his face and got to his feet. Rita reluctantly pulled away from the brothers, only to fling her arms around Frank again, then ran to catch up with Downs and Emelio as they went out the door.

"I can't wait to hear you guys tell your dad you want Fred sent out here," Kris said.

"I'll leave that to Frank," Joe said, and saw his brother smile. Okay, now for the rest of it. Take it slow, one thing at a time. He looked at Jamie. "_Uncle_ Harold?"

"CPS," Frank said, at the same time.

"Oh, he's Mom's brother," Jamie said, waving that aside. "He's been keeping an eye on me for her since I moved. He really does take it too far."

Jamie…was Downs' niece. Wonderful.

"Downs is going to foster Rita and Eme," Kris said to Frank. "Him and Cata, I mean…um, Cata's his wife, Catalina. CPS is pushing their application through, since they know them already and it's kind of an emergency. Rita and Eme, I mean."

"Did that make sense to you?" Frank said to Mar, who'd been watching everything.

Mar was grinning. "Yes, dear, it did. Because of the nature of the situation, we were able to push things a little with CPS so that Rita and Eme could be fostered here. CPS will be looking for relatives to permanently take them in, but that can take months. We'll be looking into it, too, much more carefully than CPS will, trust me."

"Back up." Joe tossed the tinsel-garland at Kris. "Angel. Rita. Explain. Now."

"You got upgraded," Kris said. Not even a twitch of a smile. Typical.

"Makes perfect sense to me," Jamie said. "I mean, Frank there's an angel and he's your brother, so genetically that means you're an angel, too, my Fluffy Cute Minion." Then she cocked her head. "Y'know, if you're my minion and you're an angel, that means I'm not just divinely appointed, I'm actually Divine. The capital D kind."

"Don't look at me," Frank said to Joe. "I've been lost since the uncle bit."

Joe only stood there. He was exhausted. He hadn't had much sleep the last three days. He'd spent two of those days getting bombarded by the sounds of seven castaways who couldn't figure out how to build a lousy raft.

"And you and your brother have way too much clothes on for angels." Jamie put her arms around Joe and kissed him on the nose. "If I'm going to do my icon right, I really need both of you to —"

"Frank's tired," Joe said firmly.

"I _am?"_

"You were snoring in the front seat. I heard you."

"A cup of coffee, and I'll be — _hey!"_ Frank ducked as Joe swung his crutch in Frank's direction. "Brothers. See what I have to put up with, Tag?"

"You're looking at it the wrong way, big brother," Kris said. "Think of it as your chance to cheat Josh out of free pizza. He's talking with Eli right now, so you've got plenty of time to plan your attack."

Frank blinked, then slowly started grinning. Joe looked from Kris to Frank, then decided he didn't want to know. But at that moment, Jamie kissed him, and the feel and warmth of her reminded Joe's body, loudly, that he'd nearly died two days ago and it wanted to do something about that, right _now._

"Joe, dear," Mar said gently, "the doctor really did say you should rest."

Mar was out of reach of the crutch. Not to mention she could move a lot faster than Joe…probably not a good idea to throw anything…

"Oh, don't worry, Mar," Jamie said, as she led Joe towards her rooms. "It's just a bit of artwork restoration. I'll make sure he's lying down."


	51. Fool if You Think It's Over

**_A/N: I messed up. This is the last chapter; I realized that the two parts in question were too short to justify separate postings, & it didn't make sense to draw it out an extra day. Soooo...we're at the end of another one. Yes, there's still more tales coming; the next one re-takes the "Arson & Old Lace" episode. Thanks to Xenithia, Leyapearl, AlecTowser, ChrisDaughterOfApollo, DuffyBarkley, Caranath, SnowPrincess88, and everyone else for the reviews, PMs, follows, favorites, & support!_**

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Kris hefted the bike up the stairs. Of all the things to go wrong, the stupid thing had blown a tire before she'd even made it to the Muni stop; so much for getting textbooks today. It would take hours of swearing and pounding on the rim to get the new tube on. Maybe she could bribe Frank into helping her; he was good with mechanical stuff. She hauled it through the archway, and pulled up short — Frank was sprawled over the couch, her copy of _Real Magic_ open and in his good hand.

He'd been lucky. A broken wrist (for which Kris had apologized several times over — she'd struck way too hard, but then again, Frank hadn't given her time to consider alternatives), some scrapes, a few cuts, blood loss, that had been it. Compared to what could have happened…

"You should start building up your own library," Kris said. "We can go hit up Green Apple, if you want." That would give her an excuse to use one of the junkers — maybe even the microbus, if Frank was up to driving.

"After dinner," Frank said. "Josh owes us."

"You," Joshua said from the kitchen, as he poured milk into his coffee, "are making an unwarranted assumption based on circumstantial evidence."

"An educated conclusion," Frank countered, "based on insider information. You're paying up."

"Handsome_, _if you had insider information, that's hardly fair!"

"Someone clue me in?" Kris said.

Frank smiled. "Let's just say I took your advice. Joe and Jamie."

"Insider info _and_ fixing the bet," Joshua growled. "No go."

"That 'no go' really means Burn The Tail," Kris said. "Heavy on the sashimi."

"Believe me," Frank said, "I'm going to play the Experienced and Jaded Older Brother to the most annoying hilt I can when Joe walks in."

"If he's still _able_ to walk, you mean," Kris said. "I'll back you up with the Annoying Kid Sister. _Really_ annoying."

Joshua sat his mug down on the coffee table. "Leaving me with Sympathetic Friend. There went your raise, Hawk, darlin'."

"Go for Jealous Insane Stalker." Kris dodged the thrown cushion. "What are you still doing here, anyway, Josh? I thought Godz had the day off."

"He does. I'm waiting for Watson to put in his appearance so I can talk to both him and Sherlock here — _there_ you are, _chè. _'Bout time."

Kris turned, ready to get _wide-eyed-kid-sister_ at Joe…then stopped.

Frank's expression went from Jaded Older Brother to shocked and concerned. "Are you okay?"

Half-aware, Joe limped slowly, as if he'd shatter on impact. "Yeah. Fine. Really."

But Frank had Joe's arm in a firm grip and steered him to the couch. "You're not acting it. You're acting like you're in shock."

Kris hesitated — Joe had just gotten out of the hospital, after all — but then again, she knew Jamie's reputation. "Okay, big brother, 'fess up. Were grapes involved?"

There was a pause…then Joe burst into shaky laughter, collapsing to a sprawl on the couch. "Oh God, no. No. Just…I feel fine. Really. Really, really _wonderful."_

"Well," Kris said to Frank, "he's still able to walk."

"Y'know, _chè_," Joshua said to Joe, "if you don't spit it out, I'm going to make good on the cold shower threat."

Grinning, staring at the ceiling, Joe breathed a huge, satisfied sigh.

"In other words, Tag needs to leave the room before she gets corrupted worse," Frank said.

Kris looked at him, then shifted her gaze to his unbroken wrist. Frank raised an eyebrow.

If anything, Joe's grin got wider. "Before I say anything…I mean…Tag, Jamie said to ask you about your kestrel."

It caught her. Unsure how to react, Kris stood there. She hadn't expected that.

"I'm going to have words with our NEA student," Joshua growled. "She damn well knows better."

Joe's grin faded as he looked from Kris to Joshua and back. "Did I say something wrong…?"

"You don't have to, partner," Joshua said. "Not even for your big brothers."

Struggling with herself, Kris didn't move for a long moment. Jamie had to have some reason to tell Joe to ask. Joe was scarred worse. He'd been hurt just as bad as Kris had been, before she'd run away back when. Jamie had to have seen, and she definitely knew…

Finally, with a deep, shaky breath, Kris started to un-button her shirt.

"Tag, no," Joe said, sitting up. "I didn't mean —"

"It's okay. Most of it's down the middle." Kris pulled her shirt open just enough, careful to keep her breasts covered.

Curled around her chest was a tattoo in gold-browns and rich creams: a female kestrel, beak open and screaming, the top wing fanned out over her left breast, right below her collarbone.

"I'd forgotten how good a job 'Cedes did," Joshua said.

"And Jamie. She designed it." Kris was waiting for the obvious question, waiting and dreading it. She'd shown Frank and Joe the reason once, long ago, but they wouldn't remember.

"A _tattoo?"_ Frank stared in open shock. "But you're a _girl. _ You didn't have that in Bayport —" He shut up as Joshua turned a scowl on him.

Joe looked at her, something in his expression starting to realize…

"It's okay, Josh." There it was, but not as bad as Kris had feared. "You don't remember," she said to Frank and Joe.

"Remember what?" Joe said.

She'd have to tell them someday, but not now. With a heavy sigh, Kris re-buttoned the shirt partway, then took Frank's good hand and placed it where the old scarred brand was, right below her collarbone.

Frank jerked back. "Oh my god…_Tag…"_

"Here," Kris said to Joe, taking his hand. "The tattoo hides it. That was the point."

Joe's fingers found the shape of the reversed-letters, then his hand flattened against it, his head bowed. "I'm sorry, Tag. I didn't know."

She took his hand again. The memories were crowding her, too many to keep silent. "It was a belt buckle. Papa had one that said 'Jesus'. I'd asked about Santa Claus. That was the excuse that started it, anyway." Kris stared down at her hands, Joe's; his left shattered from New Orleans. "They hauled me out in the station wagon after. I don't remember why. I was in the back seat, and we got stopped by some accident — someone got hit, I remember that much — and I broke out and started running."

Joe's grip was tight; Frank had wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"I hid behind a dumpster in some alley, and a woman found me. Next thing I knew, Mar was carrying me out to her car. I didn't care. Anything had to be better." Kris fell silent, trying to get control of her voice.

"Dad lectured us," Frank said, his voice thick. "Day you moved in. We scared you, and the movers caught us. They told Dad we were bullying you."

Kris remembered throwing a glass of Kool-aid and barricading herself in the bathroom, but not the rest. "I don't remember that."

"I do." Frank breathed out. "One of his big lectures, on child abuse. I was going, there's no way anyone would do that. No one would do that to a kid."

"Frank got so determined to prove Dad wrong that he dragged me to the library to do the research." Joe was back to staring at his hands. "I had nightmares for a week."

"Anyway," Kris had her hands on Joe's shoulders, shook him gently until he looked at her, "point is, I survived. I got very lucky. There's almost no good endings to something like that. But look at where I am now. A home, friends, annoying big brothers…"

"We're supposed to be annoying," Frank said. "It's in the job description."

"Joe…I wish I could tell you it all goes away. I still have a lot of problems. All I can do is try." Kris shook her head. "Jamie came to my room, day after me and _Shimá_ moved back — I was changing shirts, but she doesn't care about stuff like that — she saw the scar and grabbed some markers and started trying to scribble on my chest."

Joe burst out laughing, then pulled her into a sudden, rough hug.

But Kris pulled away. "Mind explaining _why_ Jamie told you to ask me that? Before I set Josh loose to kick her around the commons for me?"

Joe looked at her, at Frank, at Joshua, hesitated, then pulled his sweatshirt off.

Blazing, burning color — vibrant reds, golds, and oranges swept across Joe's chest and stomach and around his left side to stretch up his back: a stylized phoenix in flight, rising in flames to a swirling sun. It _glowed_, as if a stained-glass window with the sun behind it.

"_Chè," _Joshua said finally, after the long silence, "if you want to get that permanent, I'll pay for it. Gladly."

"Put me down for half," Kris said. _"Wow."_

"You know that if Aunt Gertrude sees you with a tattoo, your life'll be in immediate danger of termination," Frank said.

Joe was grinning again. "That's it. Talk me into it."

"That's the point. Jamie did that?"

"Yeah," Joe said, blushing. He looked at Kris. "Does it hurt?"

Kris shrugged. "I was fine with Tylenol and meditation. 'Cedes has a touch of mage. She uses it to enhance the inks, so they don't fade."

"'Cedes — Mercedes Salvator — she specializes in scar work," Joshua said. "Trauma survivors. What's Jamie call it, Kris, transformative something…?"

"The transformative power of shamanic tattooing." Kris managed a smile at Joe's expression. "Another guy here — a firefighter — he had a beam fall on him. Got burnt real bad through his suit, across his shoulders. Jamie designed his, too."

"Matt," Joshua said, nodding. "That owl. Yeah. He'll show it if you ask, Joe. He'll show it if you _don't_ ask, for that matter. He's proud of it — the thing's so lifelike, you'd swear it's gonna fly right off his skin."

"I've seen it," Joe said.

"Does _everyone_ have tattoos?" Frank said.

"Not at all, _chè_. I'm too much a coward." Joshua grinned at Frank's expression. "It's a personal thing, handsome. No need to risk your gorgeous skin over it."

"Me and Matt…" Kris sighed. "It's a matter of taking shame and turning it into pride." Quieter, "The scar's why I never went swimming in Bayport."

It'd provoked comment from the brothers' friends, why the little weirdo never went in the water and wouldn't wear short-sleeves when the weather was hot. Even now, Kris stuck with long-sleeves and jeans, though the San Francisco weather made it a lot easier to justify than Massachusetts had.

"I think I would like to get it permanent." Joe pulled his sweatshirt back on. "But it's not right for you guys to pay for it. I can manage."

"No," Joshua said firmly. "One, something that big'll be expensive. A few car payments, easily. Two, I'm trumping all of you. You got those scars in line of duty — don't argue, _chè_.You're part of the Blades, and you took fire. I'll claim it in the medical budget. Restorative surgery."

"Admit it, Josh, you like arguing off-beat budget stuff with Eli," Kris said.

"Eli, hell," Joshua said. "Me shoving this through Council will make up for what they've put me through the last three months. Any of you try to deny me that pleasure, I'll tell Drake you've been slacking."

"You should've heard him last month," Kris said to Frank and Joe. "He argued for fifty pounds of raw fish and permits for a two-day camp-out on Alcatraz Island for the whole crew."

"That was perfectly legitimate," Joshua said.

Grinning, Joe settled back into the chair. "I want to hear this story. Alcatraz and dead fish?"

"A ghost hunt," Joshua said, "except the ghost wasn't what we expected."

"Sea lions," Frank said.

Kris sighed. Joshua, though, looked dumb-founded. "How in the _hell_ did you figure _that_ out?"

"Tag said raw fish," Frank said. "And the seals are right across from Alcatraz." The Wharf's k-docks had huge congregations of sea lions every summer, to the delight of tourists and locals. "It's what the Loch Ness Monster is — just some lost seals."

"Are _you_ in for a shock," Joshua muttered.

"A mama sea lion," Kris said, at the same time, "with two pups. A really late birth. Mama decided Josh was her best friend — she was following him around by the time we were ready to clear out."

"Anyway," Joshua said, "that's what Jamie and 'Cedes do. That fancy name is a reminder — that no matter how bad something is, good can and will grow from it, if you have courage to let it."

Joe shook his head, as if not believing.

"He's right, big brother," Kris said. "I mean, I wish it'd never happened. But…if it hadn't…I'd never have been in Bayport. Never have gotten a couple big brothers, never have become a Blade…"

"Never have gone to New Orleans," Joe said. A look passed between the brothers, and Frank looked away.

"You don't know what all will come of it, _chè," _Joshua said. "But already, two children trusted you both, and that saved them. You both took out a monster. And now…well. I asked you in New Orleans, if you would change your actions, knowing what would come of it — no." Joshua held up a hand. "I still don't want the answer. Just think on it. And let me know when you're ready to get that permanent, so I can shove the budgeting past Eli."

Joshua got to his feet, but Joe stopped him. "Wait a minute. You said I was part of the Blades. Present tense."

"And…?"

"Josh…"

"He's been busy with Jamie," Kris said to Joshua.

"True," Joshua said. "I guess it's hard to keep current on events when you're flat on your back and —"

"_Josh…!"_

"— covered with paint," Joshua finished smoothly, then raised his hands in mock-surrender. "All right, all right. Me and Eli had a nice, long chat, Joe. You're on probation_._"

Joe and Frank exchanged a look. "Probation," Joe said, as if not daring to believe it.

"My point was that anyone who'd arrange to get shot through the heart to take down a monster was someone who really needed to be in the Blades so we could keep an eye on him," Joshua said. "Eli agreed, fortunately. Otherwise, I'd be forced to go behind his back, and lies are a bad precedent to set."

"Especially around 'paths," Kris added.

"So, you learn control, darlin'," Joshua went on, as if he hadn't heard that. "You keep up the Gift-training under my direct supervision, so you _stay_ in control. And _both_ of you go to counseling — no 'buts', handsome. We don't need no more broken sinks, black eyes, and attempted fratricide, hear?"

Joe looked away. Frank answered. "Understood."

"The babysitting rule still applies, Joe," Joshua said. "If you go out, someone goes with you. And yes, your tagalong here, Frank, and Jamie all count as 'someone'."

"You'll never let me live that name down," Kris muttered.

"You're welcome," Frank said to her.

Head bowed, Joe still said nothing.

"Now," Joshua sounded satisfied, "Eli didn't set a time frame. Healing takes however long it takes. It isn't something you rush." A smile slipped into his voice. "Your first assignment is to go through volunteer training for Wings, so we can get you into the official rotation there. Oh, and stop into the war-room tomorrow so we can get you both added to the Blades' payroll." Joshua paused; his smile widened to full grin.

"Welcome to the team, guys."

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Joe kept staring in the direction Joshua had left. He wasn't sure what he felt…or what he should be feeling. Shock, definitely. Trepidation? Uncertainty? It didn't feel like a celebration, that was certain.

"When you get a moment, Frank," Kris hefted her bike towards the sliding glass doors, "can you help me with this? It blew a tube, and if I try to fix it, I'll end up with scrap metal."

"I feel like we've just been drafted," Frank said, staring after Joshua, too.

"Drafted and going to Vietnam, you mean," Joe said. "I mean, I hated it when Eli tossed me out, but…"

"You can tell Josh no," Kris said. "You heard Mar — the college thing is there, no matter what. It's not…not…um…"

"Contingent," Frank said.

"…yeah, that…on you being Blades." Kris waited, then rattled the bike when neither brother responded. "Frank?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"I've got to get books, too. Jamie's making us get a textbook for _basic drawing_." Kris sounded disgusted. "Did you want to hit up Green Apple today? We can grab the microbus and see if we can scrounge shelves."

"Yeah. That's fine, Tag."

Kris stood there a moment, then sighed, set the bike against the wall, and sat back down. "Look…big brothers…you've been drafted since New Orleans. Before that, really. Once you know all this stuff's out there, there's no way to un-know it. It's like being a cop. It's dangerous, it's frustrating, you'll start seeing how messed-up people really are…"

"With great power comes great responsibility, you mean," Joe said, wondering about the _before that_. Probably best not to ask.

"Um, I don't have 'great power'. None of us do. I've got a mess of migraine meds and Demerol back there to prove it."

"That's not what I meant," Joe said; Frank was toying with his wrist-cast. "I guess…it's that we have to. Because no one else will."

Kris sighed. "Noble self-sacrifice, the ultimate hypocrisy."

Joe looked up.

She met that look with her usual serious un-smile. "Well? Is that really what was going through your head during all that?"

Well…no. Fear. Lots of that. Seeing Frank in Thatcher's hands…knowing that two scared children could be next…Joe had to do something; he couldn't let that happen. Joe wasn't about to…he couldn't…

Shaking his head, Joe pushed himself to his feet. "I need to think."

"I say we save ourselves a lot of trouble and just put up a sign over those doors," Frank muttered. "'Joe's Moping Space' or something like that. Complete with daily hours and _open-closed_ signs and all that."

Joe ignored that. He made it to the deck doors, only to find that Frank had followed him, as usual, but Joe waited until Frank shut the doors behind them and they were alone on the deck — well, relatively alone, anyway. Kids were running around on the swing-sets and monkey bars below, and further down the slope, smoke rose from the grills on the café patio, lacing the air with the smell of charred beef.

"I really can think all by myself," Joe said to his brother. "We're not joined at the hip. I don't need a baby-sitter every step of the way."

"I tried that line on myself, too," Frank said. "And I still had to shoot you to get you to stop following me."

Joe blinked.

"You took the _annoying baby brother_ act way too far," Frank said dryly. "You've won the whole sibling rivalry thing. I give up. I'm not about to try to one-up you on that."

Sudden, weak laughter bubbled up, and Joe collapsed over the rail, then to one of the deck chairs.

Grinning, Frank leaned back against the rail, then froze.

Joe saw his expression, and twisted around in the chair.

"You look a lot better." Vladimir stood at the top of the stairs, just out of sight of the glass doors: still in the same leather jacket, leather hat, Ray-bans. "No, don't yell. By the time the little roaring mouse scrambles out here, I'll be gone. I'm simply here to deliver a message, so to speak."

"Rita and Eme are with us now," Frank said, and his stance wasn't so casual. "They don't need a vampire protecting them."

Joe glanced at his brother — Frank was _admitting_ vampires existed?

"That works out, then," Vladimir said, "since they never had a vampire protecting them to begin with. My obligation does not end simply because others assume the duty. I would appreciate it if you would pass the warning on."

Wonderful. Downs would love hearing _that._ Joe had seen how the Blades had treated Vladimir at Wings as they'd been arguing war plans. No one had been happy about him, and none of them had seemed to trust him.

Something else to ask Tag about.

"You said you had a message," Joe said.

Vladimir's mouth quirked. "Let's just say I've found out who the two brothers are, and that word spreads quickly in certain places." With that he stretched his hand out.

Joe reached without thinking. Vladimir placed two items into Joe's palm, then curled Joe's fingers over them before Joe got a close look.

Then, without a word, Vladimir started back down the stairs.

"Wait a minute," Frank said. "You've got a lot of explaining to do."

"Yes," and now Vladimir's smile bared teeth, "but that doesn't mean I'll do it."

Both Frank and Joe went still; Joe was aware of Frank's swift intake of breath, of his own hands clenched around whatever the things were.

Vladimir's teeth were definitely pointed…and not just the canines.

All of them.

"We'll see each other again, I'm sure," Vladimir said, and was down the stairs and gone before either of the brothers unfroze enough to think of following.

"You saw it, too," Frank said. It sounded calm enough.

"I was hoping you hadn't," Joe said, and opened his hand.

A feather and a white bead. The feather was round and soft, striped with jagged cream and brown lines, and in the sunlight, it had an odd rainbow sheen, like oil on water. The bead…no, not a bead, but a translucent white pebble carved with two odd symbols: a backward Z and a Y with a line dividing the two arms.

Joe knew them. He _knew_ them. When he'd last seen them, they'd been sitting inside the carved cedar box on his dresser back in Bayport: two weird items from an even weirder mystery, when he'd been a kid…

"I think," Joe said slowly, "that Tagalong owes us another story."

Frank nodded, as he helped Joe up. "And Josh owes us dinner. We'll ambush them and shake it all out of 'em. Guess we've signed up for the war, brother." He clasped Joe's shoulder, brother to brother. "Team?"

Joe smiled. "Team."


End file.
